





t 



/ 


I 

r 

I 

I 

t 


t 





t 


/ 



b 






I 


4 


V ■ y 








4-^\» m 


* ■•i> 




'.r.^ ' *• •! .,, . 


^ / 



' . TTl*#* ■ ^ ' • ' r ' ^' r -k ^(l'\' ' ■ ■' •!/ >s , * j 

. : , • \y ", '7 ¥“** »' >‘*^ i ■¥>'» ‘'•* '’• *^'jr i' ^ 

J ; , .^N-^-- 'vv •. . '-'7 


■ 



■ ' -liy^ A .‘y'‘ 


>• 

«•« 

> K 


'vv'* ^■^'*'■■^"' 1 ? 

^ M£^ Kp , ' 


' I 


,. * 
» 


' riT 


f. > 


y . 


<• 


, ' 


y I 


. ^^'■ ' 

i ih' -^ ■ -. 

;,,ffc,‘_ ■. -.1, 

iv ^ V'-u 




^ *. 




:n, 0 *^ 

fr ' 


. I 






. ' .V* -^ 5 . ■ 

» , ( -‘ •'* .' • » * «' • ■' . • - 

4' ‘‘ t * 7 ‘'” t *■' 

f • ' <'..' ■■ -■ ' '■ 

.*• * ■' / I - , ~ :i" “ 




- 7 - . i - V • ■ 

< y ■•V^??y'k;V ^ ■/ ■ • • vy: 

'-•■Jit m*: .' ,.7 7 j,..,, , TM 


i. 


/ 















X > 


*.! 


./■ 


*• 1 


4 .'- iir'-,;S" 



y 


/ ‘ \ '., '>• 

•If • * 7 . 

Vj , 




,• . 



) • 


I 



tt>- . * ' T' 

< ✓ 


:<''' ^ • 

^ ^ i»r >' 




.> 


t-l 


• C vr. . 1 ^ 7 . /. tig;'' ^■'# V • # 

'* » .;.•■■ 

..•V,K y 



> ♦ ‘ 


I .• 


'■i" i.- 



r »• 


4 

•V 


A' - 


I 




. 4 




I - • : ;’ •• . .u.'" ' "’■■> 

< ■. rV- > .^ .:ii ■* ,^^ ■ . '^ '■ '-is ' 


j 


.■nr 


^ » 
t . 


J . < 


t/" 

S' 


. » 7' • • I *J^ ' 



-y 


y “ 







» • , 


■■ 'df 


^ ‘ 




^ . 




-y 


i^‘ 





■i'v?. 


y 





*> V'. 


'.i' 


^ \A^ 









7* 




ft 

/ 


■) 


:n,' ii-' vil 


\ •• 





i, 



V ' • % 




u I 
. ^ 
' *• 






pH' ■■ ' «i4v-V' 'O' ••■ .;?s ■ -j ' .•-■1 






•» 


I •^.' 




« ' ♦ 


j • 

1 ». 


.-■i 


f f"* 


r ■•‘•f 


1 

». 

v; ' 

J 


I 




y 


/ » 


'1 

‘’^W' . 1 


J. * 


A' 



. I 



• \i. 



■ ' ' ■ 
\ • . f 

1 .^ ^ ;•;■ '1 ’ ’’' 
W ■-■ ■ 

y ■ •- ’ ' 

* # ‘ .c • # ’ 

ir***.' j-’TA ' : » 


* 

1 1 • 




$ 


^. -■ 


, » 


• 




^1 


^ .'•'V 







} ’ 


j 


. y» 





/L 


V 



-( ♦ • r ■ * 


\ 


r « 



t I 


V 

• • 


>?i 


• I 








V 

.r; 


% r 


- tdf^^f 


i: 




ALBAN. 





A L 


BAN. 


% CfllB nf l|)r Mm 




NEW YORK: 

SHED FOR THE AUTHOR. 

M . DCOO . LII. 










' £xchartge 

ry of Supr<^me Council AAMM 
A, e -O, 1940 




I 


fp-S~ 

/30 


A WORD ABOUT “LADY ALICE.” 


The author of the above-mentioned (too 1) celebrated book 
had no reason to complain either of the public for not reading or 
of the critics for not noticing it, few novels recently published 
having had a wider circulation, and perhaps none, for a long 
time having received so much notice from the press. And not- 
withstanding the extreme severity with which it was assailed, he 
is not disposed to complain of injustice ; the criticism was often 
one-sided, but it was not, generally speaking, unfair in spirit, or 
unkind. The author was often edified and oftener amused by it: 
and, upon the whole, although he would have been "glad to have 
seen some of the positive merits of his literary offspring better 
appreciated, for otherwise he would have seemed to lack the natu- 
ral vanity of literary paternity, (and any thing unnatural is mon- 
strous,) yet he could not, except in one instance, have spared 
any thing that was actually said. He has always meant, how- 
ever, to take the opportunity, whenever it came, of saying some- 
thing in regard to the morality of Lady Alice, to the disparage- 
ment of which so much has been said ; and particularly as he 
feels a sort of traditional respect for one ancient Quarterly — the 
“ grand-mamma” of American periodicals — in which he was as- 
sailed on this score with such unmitigated virulence that it seems 
as much a duty to make some sort of reply, as it does for one 
who has been bespattered with mud (I was going to use a stron- 
ger word) from any quarter, to brush his clothes before presenting 
himself again in decent society. Literary people (for scai-ce any 

1 " • • 


VI 


A WORD ABOUT “LADY ALICE.” 

other will have seen the article) will understand that I allude to 
the North American Review. 

There is, I think, a limit beyond which the misrepresentation 
of a book under review ought not to go in a respectable periodi- 
cal. One expects that a hostile critic will take his own point of 
view, and sometimes even force a meaning on his author which 
was never intended ; that he will make sweeping assertions in 
regard to the tone, drift, and spirit of a book, quote passages with- 
out much regard to their context, and, in short, so distort the 
thing that the author would hardly know his own work, and feel, 
like Warren Hastings under the unjust castigation of Burke, that 
he was the greatest villain in existence. But assertions which 
ai-e point-blank falsehoods, without even a shadow of truth to 
support them, are a stretch of the reviewer’s prerogative, and 
when made to support a charge of studied indecency and immo- 
rality against a clergyman, as the author was then, convert a 
review into a libel. Out of a dozen examples of such “ false wit- 
ness,” 1 select one of the least offensive, uttered (I regret to say) 
with the avowed purpose of showing the “ thoroughly licentious 
character” of Lady Alice. “ Promiscuous public bathing of both 
sexes,” says the reviewer, “ is represented as only offensive to a 
taste not sufficiently catholic ; and ‘ Clifford, who knew the cus- 
toms of all countries, and had reasoned on all with the calmness 
of philosophy, thought not the worse of the modesty’ of the Ital- 
ian women for their attachment to this custom.” Now the pro- 
miscuous public bathing of both sexes is a custom of our own 
surf-beaten, tide-rolling ocean coast, and our American -womew, 
whether they are attached to it or not, certainly practise it uni- 
versally, as it is a choice between that and not bathing at all, for 
a woman cannot enter the surf with safety alone. At Rockaway, 
and I presume at Nahant, one gentleman, or two, is what most 
ladies require. But this is not the case on the coast of the Medi- 
terranean ; the “ sandy floor” of whose scooped and retired hol- 
lows “ a tideless sea never wets,” to quote from Lady Alice. 
Here the most decorous separation of the sexes in the use of the 


A WORD ABOUT “LADY ALICE.” VU 

sea-bath exists, is enforced by the police, and is carried out spon- 
taneously by the natural decorum of a southern people, who are 
“ very scrupulous in respecting any spot of the coast that they 
see to be occupied by ladies, or females of any rank,” to quote 
again. In short, notliing of the sort is said or described or allu- 
ded to in Lady Alice, and the peculiarity for which “ Clifford 
thought no worse of the modesty” of the Italian ladies, was sim- 
ply that they unmade and made the inevitable toilet on these oc- 
casions “ beneath the open sky,” This in fact is wdiat princesses 
and maidens have done from the heroic times of the Odyssey, 
and the sacred times of the Bible, on all the shores of this famous 
sea. But the modern Italian women use bathing dresses, I need 
scarcely observe, although the only observation to which they 
are exposed is that of some distant passing boat. 

If Lady Alice had not been a girl of spirit, a genius, an 
heiress, and above all, so nobly born, (which has its weight even 
in America,) she never wmuld have survived all this. But sur- 
vived it she has, and it is agreed that she is a captivating creature, 
w'hether in “ the flowing ’garments of modesty,” as the author 
expresses it, or in the “ dreamy elegance” of a “ basquined waist- 
coat and black trowsers of oriental amplitude.” From the in- 
nocent composure with which she receives a stranger’s kiss “ on 
the shore of Vietri,” to her conscious blush in the last hour of 
maidenhood, she shows a courage and frankness, which are not 
perhaps inconsistent with her piety and chastity, but which render 
her extremely piquante. 

And then Louise Schonberg ! what an idea to represent her 
as clandestinely married to Augustus without knowing it — 
against the laws of England, but in accordance with the laws of 
God; breaking off the connection before she knows what its 
consequences will be, refusing to legitimate it, because its con- 
sequences are irreparable, discovering that it binds her for ever 
just as she is about to commit an unconscious bigamy, escaping 
from that difficulty by the most improbable, yet probable decep- 
tion, then telling all this to her maiden friend ; and finally, in 


viii ' A WORD ABOUT “LADY ALICE.” 

that curious and much blamed scene of the gondola, seeking her 
husband to impart to him the secret of the validity of their 
union, to confess the folly of which despair has made her guilty, 
and to implore his pardon and his patience ; ending by marrying 
him again, before the Church, without his knowing who she is ! 
These strange, apparently involved, yet really simple plots, in 
which every step is linked to the one preceding it, amid apparent 
recklessness of consistency, and the remote cause, the initiative 
of the mistakes, and the faults, traceable up to a progenitor’s 
sin, are in the ancient rather than in the modern spirit, we confess. 

But we really cannot stop to explain or vindicate “ Lady 
Alice.” If it deserves explanation or vindication, instead of 
forgetfulness, reproductive criticism has arrived at such n pitch 
of excellence in our day, that no doubt justice and more than 
justice will be done to this singular story. From the dull false- 
hoods of the North American Review, to the sparkling raillery 
of the Lorgnette, I leave therefore the critics to themselves, till 
my day comes, if it ever comes, for appreciation and praise. I 
cannot blow my own trumpet, nor find “ understanding as well 
as verses.” The fiiults of Lady Alice lie on the surface, like 
scum on the sea ; it is unnecessary that I should confess them to 
be faults, or excuse them by showing that there is a pure and 
deep and cleansing wave beneath. Every body, whose good 
opinion is worth having, sees, or may see, both. 

I may, however, throw out one idea, as not having a merely 
retrospective bearing. The passion of love may be made in- 
teresting, I think, without those conflicts which the moderns love 
to paint, and which suppose a degrading anarchy in the soul. 
Nothing has done more to confuse the distinction between virtue 
and vice than modern- English sentimental fiction, particularly 
that which claims to be moral, if not religious ; and one object 
which I have had in view in my foimer, and have pursued in 
my present work, has been to make the lines sharp and distinct. 

New York, July 14 , 1861 . 


A L B A I 


BOOK I 

/irst Cliranttcrir, €1 ib /nniihtinE iCniit. 


CHAPTER I. 

The New England coast is very much indented (as is well 
known) with fine bays, which the numerous rivers of the Eastern 
States have united with the sweeping tides of the Atlantic to 
scoop out in the generally low, but stern and unalluvial shores. 
These bays are also, for the most part, good harbors — the homes 
and rendezvous of those adveilturous whalemen whose hardy 
enterprise, three quarters of a century ago, gained the magnificent 
eulogiums of Burke. Yantic Bay, on the coast of Connecticut, 
particularly answers to this description. It is the mouth of a 
beautiful river, which, rising in the above-mentioned State, after 
a certain course of rapids and waterfalls, unites its waters with 
those of an equal tributary, and flows navigably for about thirteen 
miles through rich embosoming hills, when the latter, gaining 
both elevation and severity of aspect, expand around the bay 
itself in a wide sweep of woodless and stone-fenced heights, 
having a white beach, and a long, low, surf-beaten point of 
bleached stones and shells for their terminus. At the sea end of 


10 


ALBAN. 


the point, stands a white light-house : nearly two miles higher up 
on the opposite heights, is a still formidable fort ; and near it, 
(at the present writing,) a colossal monument of some passage in 
the war of the Revolution, of which that fort was the scene. The 
bay is also dotted with a few rocky islets. From the absence of 
wood, and the profusion of stone, the landscape, if bold, is' rather 
severe in aspect, but at the in-flowing of the river, some outjutting 
points, covered with thick groves, promise a softer inland. 

Just out of the shelter of the groves just mentioned, close to 
the water side, and rising rather picturesquely from it, is situate 
the ancient town of Yanmouth. The Indian name of the river 
there emptying, was thus adjusted by the early settlers with an 
ending of their mother tongue and country, with a felicity rarely 
to be observed in the geographical nomenclature of the New 
World. We call Yanmouth an ancient town, but that is as cis- 
atlantic antiquity goes ; it has a date of two centuries. It had not, 
indeed, quite so much in the year 1815, in which our story opens. 
At that time several British men-of-war were lying in Yantic 
Bay, which quite recently they had been engaged in blockading. 
The men were very often ashore in parties on leave, which broke 
the quiet of the town, and injured its morals, but, on the other 
hand, this disadvantage was compensated by the visits of the 
officers, between whom and the little aristocracy of Yanmouth 
an agreeable social intercourse had succeeded to hostile relations. 
There is an aristocracy in every society however limited or inarti- 
ficial, as there is a top and a bottom to every thing. 

It was on a Sunday — and that a memorable Sunday, on 
which the fate of the world was being elsewhere bloodily decided ; 
for it was the 18th of June; and the peculiar calm of a New 
England “ Sabbath” in midsummer, rested on those iron hills, and 
wide, bright waters, and pervaded the rudely-paved streets of the 
old-fashioned rural town, half country village, and half seaport. 
At about ten o’clock, a. m., the silence was broken, but the 
sentiment of repose rather heightened, by the sound of the church 
bells answering one another at well-regulated intervals. There 


ALBAN. 


11 


were two bells only in Yanmouth then : — that of the old Congre- 
gational “ Meeting-House” where the mass of the real Yanmouth 
people, especially the gentry, still served the God of their lathers ; 
and that of the less pretending edifice, where a small body of 
Episcopalians maintained what in Ncav England was regarded 
as a novel and schismatical worship. Both bells were fine 
toned, though they were different. That which swung in the 
tall, white Congregational steeple had been captured from the 
Spaniards by a Yanmouth privateer, a half century before, and 
was both high and musical. That which answered it with a 
graver yet mellow accent, from the square bastard-gothic turret 
of the Episcopals, was the gift of the Society for the Propagation 
of the Gospel. 

Even in advance of the hour for meeting, or chm'ch, (as it 
would be variously termed according to the affinities of the 
speaker,) three boats had put out from the British frigates, and 
pulled up the bay to the landing. Two were captain’s gigs, out 
of which got a half-dozen officers, who paired off, and sauntered 
in the direction of the Episcopal church. The other two con- 
tained, besides their crews, about a dozen “young gentlemen,” 
whose course after landing was various. A few, and those the 
more unfashioned in face, shape, mien, or dress, followed their 
seniors ; but a set of neatly-equipped, rather good-looking young- 
sters, after some delay and mutual consultation, set their cox- 
combical faces in the direction of the meeting-house. The streets 
of Yanmouth ran partly parallel with the water side, partly at 
right angles with, and ascending steeply from, it. They were 
wide, and lined with large, handsome, old-fashioned, white houses, 
chiefly of wood. Some were long and low ; some had “ piazzas” 
{anglice verandas) in front. Here and there a high, narrow, red 
store, with gable to the street, its heavy block and hoisting tackle 
swinging from under a projecting peak, added to the picturesque 
variety. Before the principal houses stood old trees — vast and 
spreading elms, white-armed button-balls, or gigantic weeping- 
willows. All was now silently stirring, and quietly alive Avith 


12 


ALBAN. 


men and boys in bright blue coats and nankeens, and the gracious 
wearers of lustrous silk brocade or snowy muslin. 

Yanmouth meeting-house stood about half way up one of 
the rising streets of the town, being built (to use the local phrase) 
on a “side hill,” in a situation, therefore, of great conspicuity. 
It was built of wood, and painted white, like all New England 
meeting-houses of the time, and was adorned with the usual 
double row of green-blinded windows down its sides ; yet being 
of very ample dimensions, and even grand in proportions, with a 
bell-tower and spire of gradually lessening galleries, enriched with 
elaborate balustrades, it stood out against the blue sky a very 
imposing and almost beautiful object. It had a small church- 
yard — a green square, two sides of which were occupied by the 
“ meeting-house shed,” destined for the shelter of the equipages 
of such of the congregation as might come from a distance to 
worship. Hence the other-two sides were open to the street, and 
the trampled turf contained, of course, no graves. The burying- 
ground is usually quite separate from the church, in a New 
England village. 

The worshippers from the town flocked in, slow but unloitering, 
exchanging few greetings. The long gray shed also filled up with 
horses, gigs, and wagons. Their male owners seemed to regard it 
as a privilege to stand about the doors or under the eaves of the 
meeting-house so long as the bell continued to toll, but yet without 
profaning the sanctity of the Sabbath by entering into conversation^ 
At length the bell ceased, and these lingerers also entered ; the 
noise of their feet mounting the gallery stairs was soon over, (there 
was no organ, of course, to pour out its volumes of unspiritual 
sound,) and a profound silence filled the sanctuary. The body of 
the house was divided into great square pews, so that one half the 
congregation sat facing the other half. In modern New England 
churches the seats all look towards the minister, and this seems, at 
first sight, the most sensible arrangement ; but, in reality, the old 
one was more in accordance with true New England principles. In 
the new places of Avorship there is none of that solemnity which 


ALBAN. 


13 


used to be felt from the consciousness of each individual that he 
was under the grave and unavoidable observation of all his 
brethren. The downcast looks and formal composure of the 
females that marked the old congregations have disappeared. 
Ease has succeeded to awe. But the worst of it is, that the 
genuine idea of Congregationalism is violated. The centre of ac- 
tion and interest is shifted from the assembly itself to its minister ; 
and the nature of the action is also changed ; a solemn, if severe, 
synaxis has degenerated into a lecture ; a church watching over 
itself has sunk to an audience. 

The young officers of Her Majesty’s ship of the line Avenger 
and frigate Tonnerre (captured at Trafalgar) liked the old square 
pews for the view they afforded of many a lovely New England 
countenance. Truly, the summer light, softened by its passage 
betwixt the numerous green slats of the Venetian blinds, fell on 
more than one face of exquisite beauty, of a bloom as delicate as 
Britain could boast, and features of more classic precision than her 
humid atmosphere permits, at least without a certain hot-house 
culture. In many instances this physical beauty was united with 
that air of saint-like purity and heavenly peace which is often 
ascribed to nuns, but which is, or was, very common among New 
England Congregationalists ; proceeding in both cases, doubtless, 
from the same causes, habitual self-control, and the frequent con- 
templation of Divine things. 

As a general thing it may be doubted whether this spiritual 
style of female loveliness attracted the regards of our naval friends 
so much as that which was more mundane. Their admiring 
glances were bestowed, however, with great impartiality ; the 
young Yanmouth ladies were doubtless, in most instances, ac- 
quaintance, at the very least ; in some cases, a tenderer, though 
temporary interest, might be almost acknowledged ; and it seemed 
that only the successive contemplation of all the fair faces present 
could satisfy that hunger of the sailor’s eye after a long cruise, for 
the soft peculiarities of feature and expression proper to the other 
sex. We have not come to Yanmouth church, however, to observe 


14 


ALBAN . 


and describe these profane distractions, which have forced them- 
selves, we must say, unpleasantly, upon our attention. Our own 
business here is infinitely more serious. 

In a large wall pew, which shares with one other in the 
church the distinction of red cloth lining and brass nails, is a fam- 
ily that claims particular notice. The master sits in his proper 
place, (that is the corner seat next the side aisle, and command- 
ing the pulpit,) a man rather below the middle height, slight, 
erect, yet evidently, from his thin silver locks, of venerable years. 
The head is characteristically New Englandish ; small, rather 
square than oval ; nose Grecian, with refined nostril, and com- 
pressed mouth ; eyes not large, but well set and piercing. The 
lower part of this face was charged with a florid color which 
proved that seventy wdnters had not exhausted a rich and abun- 
dant vitality ; but the wide, serene, scarcely- wrinkled brow, was 
as silvery in tone as faultless in mould. Ideality, causality, be- 
nevolence, veneration, conscientiousness, firmness, all well de- 
veloped ! It is easy to see what character this man will have 
displayed. He has been the kind father, the admirable citizen, 
the patriot, finally, the saint. 

His vis-a-vis oflers a striking contrast. It is a man in the 
prime of life, tall, large framed, but well knit. He is dressed in 
^ the fashion of the time and season, a blue coat, with white neck- 
cloth, waiscoat, and trowscrs, of an immaculate purity ; his large 
shirt ruffles are elaborately plaited ; — then the ordinary mark of 
a gentleman. From this snowy just, -au-corps, so fresh and clean, 
emerges a grand, handsome head, oval and brilliant. It would be 
too vital were it not that the massive, clean, white forehead is 
prematurely bald ; the activity of the cerebrum has left little 
more than half of the dark brown locks that once shaded its su- 
perb temple. 

The interior corners of the pews were occupied by two females, 
the elder of whom could not have passed thirty. She was short, 
slight, and pale. She wore what was then distingue, a white 
shawl, of Chinese silk, over her high, lace-rufled, short-waisted. 


ALBAN. 


15 


black silk dress, and a Leghorn bonnet and lace veil, that seemed 
modish, and even imposing, in Yanmouth meeting-house. Her 
features were good, but irregular ; the mouth, in particular, was 
deficient in symmetry, yet was its expression sweet ; one eyebrow 
was markedly higher than the other, but the eyes were finely cut 
and of the softest blue ; the nose was a little high, yet beautifully 
formed. She had the saint-like expression of which we have be- 
fore spoken. It was, indeed, a very interesting fkce. 

Her companion was like her, but the likeness was a family 
one ; the mould was the same, but the casting had been more 
fortunate. In short, the face of the younger lady was as nearly 
perfect as possible ; but its expression was tinctured with a faint 
haughtiness, not unusual in features of extreme regularity. Be- 
tween these fair and gracious personages sat a neatly-attired 
black girl — black as the ace of spades ; — around her curly head 
was gracefully wound a bright parti-colored cotton handkerchief. 
In her arms she sustained a burden of flowing muslin petticoats, 
and long lace robes, from which emerged the small, fair, slumber- 
ing features of an infant — a sleep-bound monthling. These were 
indications, appreciated, doubtless, by all the congregation, that 
!Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Atherton were intending that morning to 
“dedicate” their first-born son to God “in the ordinance of bap- 
tism.” 

The aged minister entered the assembly, walked with 
dignity up the middle aisle, and more slowly, yet with greater 
dignity, ascended the pulpit stairs. He was an old-fashioned par- 
son of the “ standing order.” His somewhat, shrunk legs were in- 
vested in black small-clothes and stockings, and he wore great sil- 
ver shoe-buckles. His hair was long, flowing on his shoulders, and 
* white as snow. After some moments of silent preparation in the 
deep interior of the wine-glass pulpit, moments during which the 
congregation became gradually hushed as the grave, this venerable 
man arose ; all arose with him ; and lifting up his hands, he com- 
menced his prayer. 

It is not our intention to report it. It was a good prayer, brief 


slow M 


16 


ALBAN . 


and pointed, in the nature of an introduction to the exercises about 
to follow. The good pastor had used nearly the same every Sun- 
day morning, for more than half a century that he had exercised 
the pastoral office over the church in Yanmouth. A hymn was 
then sung, about dedicating little children, like Samuel, to God. 
Then the pastor read the "passage of the New Testament where 
the Lord commissions his Apostles to go forth and baptize all na- 
tions. Then foltewed a much longer prayer, very discursive, very 
theological — like an abstract of the Westminster Confession, united 
to an exposition of the Book of Revelations. Towards the close 
of it, however, the speaker narrowed down his theme to the present 
time, and spoke of the family whose youngest “ hope” was to be 
offered for admission into the visible church. He declared that 
this unconscious babe, on whom so much of the interest of the pres- 
ent occasion was concentred, was the descendant of a long line of 
eminently pious and now mostly sainted ancestors, whose graces 
he prayed that the babe might inherit, as well as their name. 
He alluded particularly to one living and present, a venerable 
servant of God, the grandslre, as it seemed, of the babe, now wait- 
ing for the call of his Master, ready like Elijah for translation, 
whose mantle, he asked might fall on this infant descendant. 
Finally, he expressed great confidence in the real election of the 
, yet unconscious candidate for the baptismal sprinkling, on the 
ground that a child of so many prayers as had gone before his very 
birth, and would ever follow him through life, must have been pre- 
destinated from all eternity to the enjoyment of the celestial man- 
sions, it being, as he said, the well-known method of the Omniscient 
and Sovereign Dispenser of all good to stir up his people to ask 
with fervor those blessings which he had in each instance eternally 
predetermined to bestow. With the exception, perhaps, of the 
young English officers, a look of pleased internal acquiescence was 
visible on all the countenances of the congregation as the prayer 
concluded. 

“ The child,” said the minister, still erect in the lofty pulpit, 
“ may now be presented by the parents for baptism.” 


ALBAN, 


17 


“ Who are the godfather and godmother ?” whispered a mid- 
shipman to a staring Yanmouth youth in the next pew. 

“ Them are the parents,” was the reply, accompanied with 
an expression of pity ; “ we don’t have nothing of that kind you 
said.” 

The ceremony of baptism is not necessarily deprived of its 
solemnity by the simple manner of performing it customary among 
the New England people. On the contrary, the mere act of 
baptism, left entirely to itself, with no benedictions of the water, 
no promises and renunciations of sponsors, no signing with the cross, 
not to say, without the numerous rites used in the Catholic 
church — the salt, the spittle, the insufflations, the exorcisms, the 
unction, the lighted candle, the white robe — is perhaps even the 
more impressive. The minister exhorted the parents to bring up 
their child in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. The nature 
of the present transaction he described, indeed, as a mere oblation 
of the child to God ; but he assured them, on the other hand, that 
God had promised to be a Father to the children of His saints, and 
that the offspring of believers were the most likely subjects of dis- 
criminating grace, a consummation to which their efforts and 
prayers ought constantly to tend. The father held the babe at the 
font ; the white-haired old minister dipped the tips of his trembling 
fingers, sprinkled a few drops of water on the face of the infant, 
not even waking it from its deep and awful slumber, and said : 

“ Alban, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the 
Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” 

a» 


18 


ALBAN. 


d 


CHAPTER II. 

The British tars sauntered along the quiet streets, rolling on 
their hips, and squaring their elbows like yard-arms. There were 
no grog-shops open in Yanmouth on the Sabbath day, and though 
immoralities of another kind were far from being unknown, there 
was yet no absolute rendezvous in this comparatively innocent sea- 
port, where the distraction of equivocal female society could be 
obtained. The selectmen exercised too strict a vigilance. So, 
finally, a little knot of the blue-jackets, ennuye with promenading 
without a purpose, sat down upon* the stone door-step of a store, 
and one of them pulling out of his pocket a pack of dirty cards, 
they fell to amusing themselves with a game that is a prime 
favorite Avith sailors. 

Cards are dull without a stake ; so the next thing some of His 
Majesty’s silver pictures were produced, and the shillings and half- 
crowns changed hands rapidly. Unfortunately the position of the 
gamesters was commanded from the windows of the meeting-house 
gallery. They were quiet at first, as they had been strictly 
enjoined to be, and spoke in under tones, for the hush of the town 
awed them ; but forgetting themselves by degrees, particularly the 
lookers-on of the game, they gave way to occasional laughter, with 
loud talking, to which now and then a ripping oath added its pecu- 
liar energy. In the deep pause between the giving out of the last 
hymn, and the preparatory fa mi sol of the volunteer choir, the 
noise of a laugh came faintly in at the open windows and caught 
< the ear of Deacon Jabez Flint, a zealous upholder of the ancient 

laws, and one of the selectmen of Yanmouth. To seize his hat a 

broad-brim — and staff (it Avas silver-headed) and go forth to ascer- 
tain the cause of these profane sounds, was in fact the duty of 
Deacon Flint ; and his investigations soon brought to light the 
enormities that were in the act of commission : — card-playing, 


ALBAN . 


19 


gambling, swearing, and unseemly merriment on the Sabbath in 
the open streets of Yanmouth, in meeting-time, with consequent 
disturbance of public worship, added to the profanation of the 
Lord’s day, each in itself a circumstance involving a separate vio- 
lation of the by-laws of the town, and constituting all together a 
complex offence of no ordinary magnitude. What did it matter 
that the offenders were foreigners ? In the command to sanctify 
the Sabbath was there not a special clause including “ the stranger 
that is within thy gates ?” So reasoned Deacon Flint, who had 
“ set his face as a flint” against such doings ; and he took his 
measures accordingly ; the consequence whereof was, to be brief, 
that by the time meeting was out, four seamen of His Majesty’s 
frigate Tonnerre had been arrested by a constabulary force of eight 
fanatical Puritans, under the guidance and authority of Deacon 
Flint, in his broad-brimmed hat and silver-headed round cane, and 
lodged forthwith in the county jail. 

From insignificant causes arise, oftentimes, the wars of mighty 
nations. The arrest of a few sailors for violating the municipal 
laws of a New England town was a matter of no great import 
in itself; but construed as an insult to the British flag, under 
which those sailors and their officers had landed, — a less thing 
might suffice to dissolve the peaceful relations then newly re-es- 
tablished between the two countries. Thus the zeal of Deacon 
Flint, approved by some, was deemed injudicious by others. The 
British officers were indignant, and some of the juniors proposed 
to storm the jail and effect a rescue. This counsel was indeed 
promptly rejected by their superiors in the informal consultation 
which took place at the moment, as both unwarrantable, and 
certain of defeat from the well-known spirit of the people. Some 
of the middies said that the commodore would bombard the town* 
if the prisoners were not instantly surrendered ; but it was an 
obvious answer to this prediction, that the British ships themselves 
lay directly under the guns of Fort Yantic, 

While the people, collected in groups, in spite of Sunday, dis- 
cussed the affair with the phlegm peculiar to New Englanders, 


20 


ALBAN . 


and the knot of cockpit officers at the boat wharf were holdinf^ a 
somewhat excited, if not angry, colloquy on the subject, the 
captain of the Tonnerre himself consulted apart with his first 
lieutenant, in the veranda of an inn that fronted the landing. 

“ Best to treat it good-naturedly, as an instance of respectable 
zeal, hut ludicrous in our eyes,” said the senior officer. 

“ I call such an instance of zeal, confounded impudence,” re- 
plied the lieutenant, with deliberate emphasis. 

“ No doubt, Harvey, no doubt; but the object at present is, to 
get the matter over amicably, without seeming to pocket an 
insult. The men must be released though, to-night.” 

“ This Deacon Flint, they say, is as obstinate as a mule 
observed the lieutenant. 

“ I think I have hit upon a way of managing him,” said his 
superior, looking at the subaltern. The lieutenant in turn regarded 
his captain with an air of inquiry. 

“ Greneral Atherton has unbounded influence,” pursued the 
latter. “ The people here regard him as little less than a saint.” 

“ duite so,” assented the lieutenant, slightly flushing. 

“ Deacon Flint would follow his advice implicitly, no doubt, 
especially in a case like this, which, in fact, is a question of reli- 
gion,” said the captain, gravely. “ You know the family, Harvey ; 
you must see the old gentleman. He is a gentleman, every inch 
of him, and a soldier ; — he would enter into my feelings, — into 
the feelings of a commanding officer.” 

“ General Atherton is very rigid in his ideas about Sunday— 
the Sabbath, as he would call it,” said Harvey, hesitatingly. 

“Pooh! pooh!” 

“ I mean, he might object to one’s calling on him to-day, on 
such an affair persisted the junior. 

“ Nonsense. You will have the goodness to go up to General 
Atherton’s immediately,'Mr. Harvey, and make such a represen- 
tation of the case as will procure his interference to liberate the 
men at once,” said his commander moving off. “ I am going to 
the ship ; you won’t come aboard without them, of course !” 


ALBAN. 


21 


CHAPTER III. 

By this time the bells had begun to ring for afternoon meeting ; 
. foi% as many of the congregation always come from far, it is the 
custom of New England to allow but a brief intermission be- 
tween morning and afternoon service, seldom exceeding an hour. 
Lieutenant Harvey did not proceed on his errand till after the 
evening service therefore, which, for some reason, he attended 
at church, and though he had often heard the beautiful prayers 
hastily read before an impending action or gathering storm, 
when Sunday happened to precede, he had perhaps never more 
heartily prayed to be “ defended from the fear of our enemies,” or 
“ from all perils and dangers of this night,” than when he was 
simply going to ask a favor of a particularly quiet New England 
countiy-gentleman. 

But service was over — it was longer than meeting by at least 
a quarter of an hour — and the brave lieutenant’s way led him 
into the broad ascending street on which the meeting-house stood. 
It was lined with great trees and paved with rubble stones, 
from which the rapid descent of waters in every rain had long 
since swept away the lighter portions of the soil. Here and 
there native rock, smooth and flat, appeared above the surface. 
At the top of this street ran another at right angles, and beyond, 
the hill extended in an open green terminating in a white court- 
house, flanked by a stone jail — a square, solid building with grated 
windows, from one of which the English officer’s blood boiled to 
see the grim faces of his men peering out in durance vile. 

This was the end of the town in that direction. Behind the 
court-house and jail were seen only stone-fenced hills and the 
sky. But on the right of the court-house green, in the midst of 
lofty and considerable grounds, stood a large white mansion of 
brick, having a many-sloped black roof without gables, of which 


22 


ALBAN. 


the eaves projecting like a vei-anda, and supported by massive 
and square brick columns, formed a huge piazza quite round the 
house. The white front wall of the grounds flanked the green, 
and was of brick, stone-coped, and broken by quaint brick pillars, 
like those of the piazza. There were two gates, a larger one at 
the lowest point of the hill for carriages, and a smaller one, but 
more enriched, latticed, and flanked by pillars, above, which served 
for pedestrians, or even for visitors in carriages, if they did not 
mind walking a hundred yards, or thereabouts, to the house. 
Lieutenant Harvey directed his steps to this entrance, and entered 
by it without using the brass knocker. Within was a small lawn, 
planted with shrubbery, and a flagged pathway led from the gate 
to a flight of half-a-dozen stone steps, which brought the officer to 
the level of a green and shrubberied terrace, with a continuation 
of the pathway leading to another flight and another terrace, 
whereon stood the house, the great brick pillars of the piazza 
having their quaint lofty bases rooted in the turf Those of the 
front were wreathed with honeysuckles. Roses bloomed between 
them, and beneath the open windows. There was a path under 
the piazza, and on one side was a garden rising in terraces and 
skirted with fruit-trees ; oir the other, the hill descended in a green 
slope to the carriage-road, and the view was open over the town, 
to the bay, the wooded mouth of the Yantic, and the gray heights 
beyond, with their fences of stone and guardian forts. 

Lieutenant Harvey raised the bright brass knocker of the 
double-valved green door. An old negro in a white coat an- 
swered the summons. His wrinkled black face evinced great 
surprise at the visitor. 

“ What, Massa Harvey I you come to de Cassle a-courtin’ on 
de Sabbat’ day ! Sir ! as sure as my name is Sam’l Ath’ton, the 
gen’ral no ’prove it.” 

“ I have not come to the ‘ Castle’ to-day a-courting, Sam. I 
wish to see General Atherton himself on particular business.” 

“ The gcn’ral never tend to biz’ness on de Sabbat’,” said the 
negro, letting in the visitor with evident reluctance. “ My good- 


ALBAN. 


23 


ness, Massa Harvey ! de Cassle de las’ place you ought to come 
to, to do biz’ness on de Sabbat’ day afore sun-down. You lose 
your crak’ter in dis house entirely.” 

The vestibule into which Harvey was admitted, was a small, 
square hall, nearly filled with a broad, well-lighted staircase. 

The narrow, but very rich foreign carpet with which this 
was laid, and a hall-lamp of cut glass suspended from the ceiling, 
gave it an air different from most Yanmouth interiors at that pe- 
riod, although now it would be far from unique. A sword, and an 
old revolutionary cocked-hat hung on the wall. The negro threw 
open a door, and ushered the visitor into a spacious drawing-room, 
— in the vernacular, the parlor. 

“ Mr. Harvey !” said a soft voice, in an under tone of slight 
surprise. 

There were three ladies in the parlor, two of whom have 
already been introduced in their pew at the Congregational meet- 
ing-house, and it was the younger of these who spoke, and who, 
at the same -time, rose to receive the English officer. The other 
two remained sitting and silent, but regarded him with a stare of 
undisguised curiosity. ^ 

“ I called to see your father. Miss Atherton, on an errand of 
importance from my commanding officer.” 

“ Your father is in the bedroom, Betsey,” said a voice with 
quickness ; and the young lady addressed left the parlor without 
further remark. 

“ The bedroom,” in a New England house at that time sig- 
nified the bedroom of “ the heads” of the family. It was gen- 
erally upon the first or principal floor, and was much used as a 
more sacred kind of sitting-room, to which all the members of the 
family proper had access ; but when the best, or drawing-room 
chamber, was occupied by guests, as happened at this time at 
General Atherton’s, it would also afford a place, on Sundays, or 
at other times, for devotional retirement ; and such, doubtless, as 
Lieutenant Harvey immediately understood, was the case at that 
instant. The reader will also at once comprehend, that the above 


24 


ALBAN. 


observation, addressed to Miss Atherton, proceeded from her 
mother. She was a woman on the shady side of sixty — perhaps 
nearer three score and ten ; very slight, very straight, sitting 
erect in her chair by the open east window, without leaning in 
the least upon the high back for support ; a large book was open 
in her lap, and she was reading without the aid of glasses. The 
close cap of the time entirely concealed her gray hair, and sur- 
rounded a face that must once have been beautiful. It was still 
full of vivacity. On the wall directly opposite her hung her own 
portrait, a few years younger, perhaps, but in the same costume 
that she actually wore— a dark silk gown and snowy muslin neck- 
erchief, arranged with neat precision. Many other portraits 
adorned the walls, and we may indeed scrutinize the apartment a 
little, while we are waiting in solemn silence for General Ather- 
ton to appear. 

It was a large room, as we have said, and lofty, and the por^ 
traits were ranged down one side of it. General Atherton, whom 
we have already seen at meeting, was there by his lady’s side, in 
the old continental blue and buff, the high, white cravat, and 
rich frill of ’76. The painter had caught well his expression of 
saintly serenity. There was a head which you would have 
sworn was his father’s, but of harder lineaments ; — the costume 
plain and citizenish, but otherwise scarcely to be made out ; and 
another which you might divine to be his mother’s, — very soft, 
and the most youthful in the collection ; it must have been taken 
three quarters of a century before. Probably it was painted 
by Smybert, who flourished in the then loyal colonies, before 
the French war. The other portraits were more modern ; one 
smooth, youthful countenance, almost boyish, surprised you by its 
association with a parson’s gown and bands, — signs of office which 
the Congregationalist ministers in Boston, and the larger cities of 
New England still retained. At the lower end of the room, over 
the very high mantel-piece of dark native stone, hung also nearly 
a dozen miniatures in oil, exquisitely painted ; evidently all by 
the same hand. The massive little gilt frames made the wall 


ALBAN. 


25 


sparkle ; and they were disposed round a central piece, — a lozenge- 
shaped coat of arms, worked in gold filagree and blue, — a re- 
splendent object preserved in a glass case. There was very little 
furniture in the apartment, compared with our modern profusion. 
An escritoire bookcase of mahogany, polished by constant rub- 
bing into a sort of golden looking-glass, and nearly covered with 
spotlessly bright and fanciful brass mountings and drawer-handles, 
stood near the fireplace, A tall, old-fashioned clock, with the 
moon’s ever-varying face moving on its dial, stood in a darkish 
corner, solemnly ticking in the silence. And there was little else 
that was ornamental. 

The beautiful Miss Atherton returned from her mission, saying, 
in a low tone, that “Pa” would come in presently, and seating 
herself by a window, resumed her book. Young Mrs. Atherton 
had not uttered a word. She sat in a low rocking-chair, medita- 
ting apparently, for her air was serious though sweet. Ten 
minutes elapsed, and General Atherton did not appear. 

“ Have you been to church to-day, Mr. Harvey, or to meet- 
ing ?” suddenly asked old Mrs. Atherton. 

“ To meeting, madam, in the morning,” said the officer. 

“ Ah ! then you saw my grandson christened,” broke in the 
old lady with animation. 

“ Saw him baptized, you mean, ma !” said young Mrs. Ather- 
ton, faintly, and with a slight winning smile of remonstrance. 

“ No, child, I mean christened ; — is not that what you call it 
at home — in Old England, Mr. Harvey ?” 

“ Baptized or christened, madam, is the same, I have always 
understood,” said the lieutenant. 

Miss Atherton’s lip -curled, but she did not look up from her 
book. 

“ How did you like the name ?” pursued the old lady, with a 
courteous but sarcastic air. Harvey said he thought it a ‘very 
good name, and Miss Atherton’s lip curled again. 

“ It comes from a good source,” said the old lady, turning 
over to the first pages of her book, — “ the calendar of the Church 

3 


26 


ALBAN. 


of England Prayer-book — the only prayer-book I ever use. — 
Yesterday was St. Alban’s day, and I find he was the first 
English martyr, so, as I was promised the naming of the boy, I 
chose that. It is better than Hezekiah or Samuel, don’t you 
think ?” 

“ Those names are both in the Bible, you know, mamma !” 
said the married daughter ; “ I am sure you really like them.” 

“ I like Hezekiah in your father, Glrace.” 

“ And Samuel in my husband, I hope,” said the daughter, 
with a smile, though somewhat pained. 

“ He was named after his father, who was President of Con- 
gress,” said the old lady, “ and a signer of the Declaration ; — not 
that I think any better of him for that,” — and she glanced out 
of the window towards the fort on the distant heights. 

“ And Samuel in the Bible was one of the judges, and a 
prophet of the Lord,” said Mrs. Samuel Atherton, with perse- 
vering suavity. 

“ And Alban in the Prayer-book was one of the martyrs, and 
a saint of the Lord rejoined her mother. 

Truly, it has excited our surprise that this young descendant 
of the Puritans, chi'istened in a Congregationalist meeting-house, 
should receive the name of a Catholic saint. But we have not 
time to think about it, for at length, the General Hezekiah so 
long waited for, comes in from his retirement, and listens with 
grave but gracious attention to the British officer’s story. 

“ What you urge is reasonable, Mr. Harvey,” said he, at its 
conclusion. “ Deacon Flint is a good man, but his zeal in this 
instance has carried him further than duty required him to go. 
It would have sufficed to reprimand your men, and send them 
back to their boat. I will go with you to his house, and doubt 
not to obtain an order for their release.” 

“ It is a work of necessity and mercy,” said the younger Mrs. 
Atherton. 

“ I think so, daughter Grace.” 


ALBAN. 


27 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was almost the longest day of the year, of course, and it 
seemed that the sun never would go down that evening. Grad- 
ually, however, the shadow of the hill climbed up the quaint brick 
pillars of the old Atherton house — the “ Cassle,” as black Sam 
called it — and chased the red light up the varied slopes of the 
black roof, till at last only the gilt points of the forked lightning- 
rod sparkled in the day-beam. Then Elizabeth Atherton came out 
among the roses and honeysuckles of the piazza, and sauntered 
into the garden, lifting her gracious white drapery a little, as she 
went up the terraced parterres, till her form was seen at their 
highest point defined against the crimson sky. 

It was in the angle of the wall that she stood, where a great 
rock emerged above the surface ; the road ran some twenty feet 
below on one side ; on the other, her father’s domain extended, in 
grass land and locust groves. The land on the farther side of the 
road was also General Atherton’s, except the very topmost slope 
of the hill, which was fenced off by itself, with a line of trees run- 
ning along its lower boundary. This separated lot manifested the 
purpose to which it was devoted, by hundreds of grassy mounds, 
with numerous white gravestones interspersed. At the date of this 
present writing. General Atherton, with his wife, and both their 
daughters — the beautiful Elizabeth herself — repose beneath one of 
the highest knolls, which is crowned by their tall obelisk tomb- 
stones. Be not too sad, reader ; for consider that thirty-five years 
have elapsed ; and of those four, one only died in youth. A com- 
mon fate, late or soon, ingulfs the earthly life of all. 

The golden ray (we mean it) at length had ceased to tinge even ^ 
the highest rampart of Yantic fort ; it was positively sundown ; 
and a stir became apparent in Yanmouth. From her lofty post of 
observation, Betsey Atherton could see many a doorway become 


A 


28 


ALBAN. 


enlivened with white dresses and summer trowsers , now a solitary 
beau, and then a whole bevy of girls would flutter down or across 
a street. Laughter was heard in the twilight, and music, and the 
resounding of gates swung to with a sort of consciousness that the 
Sabbath was over. Soon a quite numerous party were descried 
coming up the hill, and crossing the green towards her father’s 
house. They came in at the upper gate talking gayly and loud. 
Elizabeth saw her father and elder sister go out to meet them on 
the terrace steps. After a short conversation, two or three girls, 
and as many youths, broke away from the rest, and came actually 
running into the garden, the females in advance of their compan- 
ions. As they flew along the terraces, one gave a faint, hoydenish 
scream, and another laughed. 

“ Why girls/ how you act/” said Miss Atherton, reproachfully, 
in her low, soft voice, slightly drawling the two italicized words. 

They were all beautiful creatures, to speak generally, fragile 
in make, and reaching apparently, in age, from sixteen to twenty. 
One had a profusion of long, light brown ringlets falling on her 
shoulders ; another’s glossy raven hair was classically twisted ; 
the third had short crisp French curls all around her forehead and 
temples. Two of the gentlemen who followed them were English 
officers, and one of these was our friend Harvey, with whom Miss 
Atherton shook hands, and said, with a very sweet and gentle, 
though amused smile : 

“ I trust you have succeeded in liberating the captives. Lieuten- 
ant Harvey ?” 

“ 1 wish I could as easily deliver another captive that I know 
of. Miss Atherton,” replied the lieutenant gallantly. 

The girls all giggled, and the other gentleman exclaimed, “All 
the captives ! you ought to say, Harvey.” And the three girls 
laughed again, and Miss Atherton said she thought “ they were 
possessed 

We are afraid that if we were to continue our account of the 
conversation, it would not prove greatly more edifying than the 
slight specimen we have given. Miss Atherton herself gradually 


ALBAN. 


29 


took part in what she at first seemed to consider the undignified 
conduct of her friends : at least she laughed, though low and 
musically, as people say, and retorted their silly railleries. By and 
hy it was proposed to promenade up and down the walks ; and 
the young ladies accepted without scruple the offered arms of the 
cavaliers. The conversation now became more subdued ; the 
moon rose upon the rugged but beautiful landscape ; the terraces 
of turf and stone, and the long, white piazza were partly in shade, 
and partly in a soft glitter. 

“ The new world is more charming than the old,” said the 
English officer. 

“ And you are really serious in your plan of giving up your 
profession and settling in the West ?” 

“ Never more serious in my life. Your brother-in-law has 
promised to sell me a township in the Genesee country, not entirely 
beyond the reach of civilization either, and for a mere trifle.” 

“ But you first return to England ?” 

“ We sail on Thursday,” said the lieutenant. 

“ I am very sorry,” said Miss Atherton, looking up at him. 
The English officer was a handsome fellow. 

“ And I was never so sorry in my life,” replied the lieutenant. 
“ To be quite plain — since I am going so soon — and may not have 
another opportunity, (let us turn up this walk, Miss Atherton,) you 
are the cause.” 

The sailor hemmed and cleared his throat. There was nothing 
sufficiently definite said yet for a lady to answer, but enough for 
a lady to understand. Miss Atherton looked down of course. 

“ I ventured to speak to your father this afternoon,” pursued 
the lieutenant, rather vaguely. “ He reproved me for mentioning 
it on Sunday — on the Sabbath I mean — but referred me to you.” 

“ Mentioning what ?” said the young New England lady, with 
characteristic caution. 

“ I thought I had explained that. Miss Atherton. What could 
I mention but my attachment — my respectful, devoted attachment 
to yourself?” 

8 » 


30 


ALBAN. 


The young lady immediately had the air of one very much sur- 
prised. Young ladies are always surprised, and yet somehow they 
know very well. Miss Atherton withdrew her hand softly from 
her companion’s arm. She stopped abruptly midway of the walk, 
and turning away slightly, looked over th^ low rough wall towards 
the burying-ground, where the gravestones glittered like her own 
raiment. What a question is she deciding ! It is whether she 
shall be a wife and mother, and go with a companion whom she 
likes, and whom she would easily learn to love with tenderness, to 
a clime and soil, an air and mode of life far more favorable to her 
delicate, but untainted constitution, than that of the stern New 
England coast, and where she would probably have lived as long 
as our New England flowers generally do when transplanted to 
the alluvial West ; or whether she shall lie soon — a virgin — under 
yon moonlit knoll. She has no conception of this aspect of the 
question, yet there seems something deeper than either maiden 
coyness in confessing, or womanly reluctance to give pain in 
denying, a reciprocation of the feeling with which she has 
been addressed. She does not look at her companion, which is 
unfortunate, for he is a manly figure, most particularly good-look- 
ing, and now an ardent and sympathetic agitation quickens his 
deep respiration, and his fine embrowned features express many 
things that females instantly appreciate, and greatly like, — sin- 
cerity, warmth of feeling, respectful fear, passionate admiration. 
There was clearly a struggle in the maiden’s bosom, but it was 
brief. 

“ I am sorry — very sorry — that you feel so, Mr. Harvey, — that 
is — I cannot — .” She hesitated. “ You know my principles. 
Lieutenant Harvey ; I cannot reconcile it to my conscience to 
marry one who is not a Christian.” 

“Not a Christian, Miss Atherton ! My God ! do you take me 
for an infidel ?” 

“ Oh, no, not an infidel, sir; but you do not so much as believe 
in that change of heart which we think necessary to make a real 
Christian. I always resolved,” added she, and her delicate pro- 


ALBAN. 


31 


file looked firmness itself, — “ I always resolved never to marry 
any but a Christian.” 

“ But this is a very extraordinary resolution,” said the lieu- 
tenant, with profound seriousness. “ You have three married 
sisters. Miss Atherton, and not one of their husbands is a Chris- 
tian, in that sense of the word. Why, there is your own mother. 
Miss Atherton, who is of my church : — I am as much a Christian 
as she is, am I not ?” 

“ That does not alter the right and wrong of the case,” said 
Miss Atherton, mildly. 

Others of the party now approached, and the pair resumed 
their walk, hut Miss Atherton did not resume her lover’s arm. 

” I may venture to think' that at least you have no other oh- 
.jection,” said the lieutenant. “ My family, I believe, is as good 
as yours, though it may not he so distinguished. Miss Atherton.” 

“ I never thought of comparing them,” said the young lady. 

“ I cannot boast of my million acres of wild land, and my 
forty ships sailing to the Indies, like your brother-in-law, Mr. 
Samuel Atherton.” 

After a few moments’ thoughtful silence Betsey Atherton 
touched quickly with her finger that region of the forehead where 
phrenologists locate the organ of calculation, and replied, with a 
mixture of archness and sweet sincerity : — 

“ My highest aspiration, when I have sometimes thought of 
wedded life as most desirable for one of my sex, has been to marry 
a talented minister, settled over some large society, in New York 
or Boston, like my brother Jonathan, whose income. Lieutenant 
Harvey, is considerably less than your patrimony would produce, 
if converted into dollars and put out at the American rate of in- 
terest.” 


32 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER V. 

The life of Master Alban Atherton, till he was about eight 
years old, crept on (the days, upon a child, drop one by one, 
slowly, like the beads of a novice) between his father’s house in 
the great city and his grandfather’s in the rural haven of Yan- 
mouth. At that time, owing to the nearly annual visit of yellow 
fever, New York was not considered a safe summer residence, and 
as the commercial difficulties that followed the peace pressed too 
dangerously on one who had (literally) so much heavy canvas 
spread as our hero’s father, to allow of his remaining long at a 
distance from his counting-house, and Mrs. Atherton would not 
permit the long months from May till the frost to separate her 
from her husband, the boy was naturally sent to his grandfather’s. 
Here his aunt Elizabeth took charge of him ; and it is no slight 
privilege to know in early childhood the modesty of virginal care. 
By itself, indeed, it might have proved too cold an influence, under 
which the young soul would have blanched like flowers exposed 
only to moonlight ; but at the end of every six months little Alban 
passed into the warmer arms of his mother, and played his winters 
through in the glow of his father’s hearth. The great parlor at 
the “ Cassle,” with its sparse, old-fashioned furniture, and windows 
shaded but by the honeysuckles and massive pillars of the piazza, 
was not more different from Mrs. Atherton’s winter drawing-room 
with its crimson damask curtains, its modern sofa covered with 
sumptuous red velvet, and the sideboard of silver plate and 
Chinese porcelain which glittered in its deep recess, than was the 
spirit of the former abode from that of the latter. 

Mr. Samuel Atherton was a hearty, genial character, flevoted 
to the world, particularly to the increase of his fortune, fond of 
good living, hospitable, friendly, generous, confiding, quick in re- 
sentments, susceptible of the influence of female beauty. With 


ALBAN . 


33 


his intellectual power and his strong passions he might have made 
a bad man, had he not been endowed with great conscientiousness. 
His education had been one of great simplicity, and he had always 
been involved in business. His affection for his wife and son was 
of the warmest kind. If refinement, gentleness, and a deep sense 
of religion breathed out upon young Alban from his slight, quiet, 
blue-eyed mother, the great frame, vital activity, and cordial laugh 
of his father inspired qualities, as well physical as moral, of a far 
different order. 

There was a difference of system as well as of persons and 
things between New York and Yanmouth. At both our young 
hero learned the rudiments of religion from the Westminster 
Catechism, but at his grandfather’s, twice a day, the household 
were assembled round what is called in New England, metapho- 
rically, the family altar : while at his father’s, a grace before 
meat, of extreme brevity, constituted the visible domestic worship. 
Mr. Samuel Atherton was not a “ professor,” and in fact, rather 
went beyond the New England notion of consistency, in one as 
yet unacquainted with the power of vital godliness, even by say- 
ing grace at his own table. The Sabbath was observed in both 
houses with equal strictness, but (it was a less point, yet by no 
means an unimportant one) at Yanmouth, Saturday evening was 
“kept;” in New York, Sunday evening was reckoned “holy 
time.” So, at a very early age, the boy learned that at Yanmouth 
the church of the family was Congregationalist, but in New 
York, Presbyterian ; and that these churches differed not in 
“ doctrine,” as he was told, but “ only in church government.” 
The longing for unity, which is one of the strongest instincts of 
the human mind, compelled his young soul to puzzle itself over 
this mysterious diversity, and unable, as children always are, to 
think that two ways to heaven can be right, he inwardly, even 
at that early age, exercised his power of choice, and finding the 
mere claim of authority doubtless a proof of its validity, he 
accepted Presbyter)', and placed Congregationalism, as such, under 
his childish anathema. 


34 


ALBAN. 


At Yanmouth, too, a mystery of another sort became an 
element of young Alban’s imagination. It is that geographical 
mystery which children and peasants, — all ignorant minds, — feel 
as so attractive, yet so awful. What lay beyond the circle of 
hills that bounded on the north the view from his grandfather’s 
terraces ? Alban, at seven years, had journeyed by water, but 
never by land. And then there was the Yantic, that came 
flowing out of those hills, with rich woods overhanging its eddy- 
ing stream — what sort of region lay about its sources ? — who 
dwelt around its fountains ? 

“ What do they call the place where the river falls, aunty ?” 
he asked. 

“ It is called Yantic Falls, my dear.” 

“ That is not the same Yantic Falls where uncle and aunt 
Hezekiah live, and cou.sin Rachel, is it aunty ?” 

“ The very same, Alban.” 

“ Oh, is it the same ?” said the child. Then, after some 
minutes’ meditation, “ And grandpa lived there too, a great — 
great while ago, did he not, aunt Betsey ?” 

“ Yes, yes, my dear child, he did. All the Athertons lived 
first at Yantic Falls. Your great-uncles — your grandfather’s 
brothers — live there now ; and a great many other Athertons, 
who are your relations, more or less near.” 

“ Is Yantic Falls so large as Yanmouth ?” 

“Yes, Alby, it is larger.” 

“ It is not so pretty, is it, aunty ?” 

“Yes, my dear, it is a much more beautiful place — the most 
beautiful I ever saw in my life.” 

“And do my great-uncles all live in houses just like grand- 
pa’s ?” 

“ No, my dear : — they, with others of your kindred, live in 
the old Atherton homesteads, where our ancestors have lived, ever 
since the family came here, that is, almost for two hundred 
years.” 

“ What are ancestors ?” asked the child. 


ALBAN. 


35 


“ Our grandparents, and our great-grandparents, and our 
great-great-grandparents, and our great-great-great-grandparents, 
and so on, as far back as you like to go, up to Noah or to Adam,” 
said his aunt, soberly laughing. 

“ And homesteads — what are they ?” 

“ A homestead is the house where our ancestors lived, one 
after another, and which belonged to them, with all the land 
round it. But you have asked questions enough for the present. 
Some day I will take you to Yantic Falls, and then you shall 
see the old homestead, — our own, I mean — the old homestead of 
all.” 

“ But I cannot see our ancestors, aunty, for they are dead.” 

“ No, Alby, but you shall see their graves.” 

It was a great event when little Alban was taken by his 
aunt one Saturday afternoon to Yantic Falls. One of Elizabeth 
Atherton’s married sisters was “ settled” in Yanmouth, and it was 
young Mansfield — a nearly full-grown nephew, and Alban’s 
cousin, who drove them in General Atherton’s chaise. The 
chaise, alias gig, and the pleasure- wagon, were nearly the only 
carriages then known in Connecticut. It was about a century, 
in fact, since the great-grandfather of General Atherton had set 
up at Yantic Falls the first chaise ever seen in the colony, and 
the family had never since used any grander vehicle. The dis- 
tance from Yanmouth to the Falls, was only a dozen miles or 
thereabouts ; the road was hilly, indeed, but in fair order, and 
wound its way through a half-wild, and highly picturesque 
country, that showed, however, at every' step, more of fertility 
and of culture. The little Alban evinced a quick eye for 
scenery. Every gray rock overhanging the road, every copse, 
with its sweet spring gurgling over living green by the road-side, 
every glimpse of the winding river, with its shadowy islets, 
elicited expressions of delight which made Tom Mansfield laugh, 
and charmed the quiet heart of Betsey Atherton. But it was 
when, about half-way to the Falls from Yanmouth, they suddenly 
came upon an Indian village in an ancient clearing, belted with 


36 


ALBAN. 


the oldest woods of the region, that Master Alban’s transports 
could scarcely be restrained. Here was indeed a new world 
which no one could have suspected to exist within so short a 
distance from Yanmouth. Not but that the Indians frequently 
came down to the port, with fruit and fish, or moccasins, and 
baskets of birch-bark, braided with porcupine quills ; and 
sometimes a blanketed squaw, with blue trowsers under her single 
short petticoat of the same color, and a man’s hat on her 
head, her patient papoose bound to a straight board between 
her shoulders, would stray into the kitchen of the “ Cassle,” and 
sit in silence, (till black Hagar as silently brought cold meat, 
or perhaps some cast-off finery of her mistress,) scorning to 
beg, and departing with a stately “ good morning” by way of 
thanks. 

Alban was familiar with this ; but an Indian town ! the huts, 
the yellow gourds, the half-naked little boys ; it was quite like 
one of grandma’s stories. He almost wished that he had been an 
Indian. Betsey Atherton’s beautiful face also lighted up with 
intense feeling of some sort, as they passed out of the old Mohe- 
gao. village. 

“ lYhen you are a man, Alban, if you are a true Christian, as 
I hope you will be,” she said, “ you can be a missionary, and 
teach the Indians to love Christ.” 

The “ Falls” answered very well to Elizabeth Atherton’s de- 
scription. Alban was silent and attentive, as the strong bay 
horse drew the chaise up the hill that led from the “ Landing,” 
or business part of the town, to the “ Plain.” Under the hill-side 
covered with junipers, across the wide greens shaded with elms, 
they trotted along with the stealthiness peculiar to gigs. All the 
houses were of wood, double and two storied, and painted white 
or yellow. They stood in green shrubberied court-yards, with 
white railings, and noble trees in front ; gardens in the rear. They 
stopped at one which seemed older than the rest, for it was more 
deeply embowered. Before Thomas Mansfield could help his 
aunt and Alban out of the chaise, the yellow front-door was 


ALBAN. 


37 


opened, and a young lady came out exclaiming, “ Why, Bessie, 
how do you do ?” and ran to meet them at the gate. 

“ How do you do, Rachel ?” 

The ladies kissed each other with great seeming affection, and 
Rachel kissed Alban two or three times, but the great Thomas 
Mansfield once. The passing by of one or two persons, who gave 
the arrival a look of curiosity, did not seem to embarrass at all 
these cordial welcomes. Rachel led them into the house, and at 
the door met them a middle-aged motherly matron, who kissed all 
the new-comers. 

“ You come in good time, sister,” she said to Miss Atherton. 
“ Dinner will be ready in half an hour, but if little Alban is 
hungry, as he must be after his ride, he shall have a piece of 
gingerbread immediately. Do, Rachel, get Alban a piece of that 
gingerbread hot from the oven.” 

In fact, the house was fragrant with the recent “ bake.” It 
was Saturday, you know. 

4 




38 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ I LIKE exceedingly the plan of taking Alby to see all the 
Athertons, and the old Atherton homesteads,” said Rachel Ather- 
ton to Betsey. “ It is a very wholesome thought that we belong 
to a race rooted in the land for many generations — a race which 
God has multiplied and blessed.” 

“ I thought that it would teach the child what is meant by the 
God of his fathers,” said Betsey Atherton, with her sweetest smile. 

“ To whom I trust that he will be faithful as his fathers have 
ever been, in spite of his being named after a Catholic saint,” 
said Rachel’s father. 

This conversation occurred at dinner. 

Deacon Hezekiah Atherton was Elizabeth’s oldest brother, 
the sterner image of their- father, yet of a singular and almost en- 
chanting suavity in his occasional manner. Rachel was but a 
few years her aunt’s junior, and their intimacy was sisterly. She 
was in her maiden prime then, — scarcely turned of twenty ; tall, 
a dark, bright face ; fine eyes, sparkling teeth, a smile of irresisti- 
ble sympathy. Rachel Atherton was what is called an intellec- 
tual girl. She had imagination, enthusiasm, and great moral 
energy. She was by no means so beautiful as her aunt ; her 
figure though passable, wanted the charming undulations of Bet- 
sey Atherton, whose every line was harmony, and her every 
motion grace ; yet Rachel had already twenty admirers to Eliza- 
beth’s one. 

“ You don’t find our table so elegantly furnished as yours at 
the ‘ Castle,’ sister Betsey,” said Deacon Atherton. 

“ I am afraid Bessie finds more serious fault,” said Rachel, 
glancing at the slice of fresh bread, by the side of her aunt-friend’s 
plate, of which the crust only had been touched. “ My bread is 
sour to-day.” 


ALBAN. 


39 


“ Rachel has so many books to read, and so many enterprises 
of charity on hand, that her housekeeping suffers said her 
father. 

“ The bread is raised a trifle too much,” said Ehzabeth, 
candidly, '* but I get along very well. Pa is so particular, that I 
am obliged to be as particular myself at the Castle, as you say.” 

“ And you have no pictures to paint,” said her brother, glancing 
at the numerous water-color copies of celebrated pictures which 
decorated the dining-room. 

“ No ; I do not possess Rachel’s enviable talent in that respect,” 
rejoined Betsey, with an admiring glance at a finely-colored 
“ Deposition,” after Rubens. 

Indeed, it was not only the sour bread that betrayed to Bessie’s 
experience some neglect of the fine details of New England house- 
keeping ; but she knew her friend’s infirmity. Cutting an over- 
sweetened tart, (which Master Alby — little epicure — left on his 
plate,) Rachel informed her friend that after dinner she would 
accompany her in a general visitation of the Atherton families, 
and would take the opportunity to unfold to her a scheme of which 
she was full, and which Bessie, she was sure, would approve. 
The chaise was brought to the door ; the two girls took their 
places, with Tom Mansfield sitting between them on the edge of 
the two cushions just where they met ; Master Alban had a stool 
placed at his aunt’s feet. It was a load, but the bay horse was 
strong. Away they go, under the lofty elms that line the road. 
On one side of the broad green are the white houses amid their 
gardens ; on the other rises the steep hill, covered with juniper 
and pine. They are to call on at least a dozen families, all own- 
ing the name of Atherton, all more or less nearly related to little 
Alby, either on the/ather’s or mother’s side, all in a circuit of some 
four miles square, — a beautiful rus-in-urhe, so mingling farm and 
town, fair streets, wild hills, thick groves, romantic waterfalls, 
lonely meeting-houses, and factory villages. The burying-ground 
of Indian sachems lay in a wood near one of the finest mansions, 
and many a strange tradition was told by Rachel of Indian battles 


40 


ALBAN. 


and sanguinary acts of vengeance, of which she pointed out to 
Alby the precise localities. Then the manners of the people, 
which Alby was too young to appreciate : — the blended urbanity 
and rusticity of his kinsmen, — people who had never known a 
superior, and acknowledged none but their Maker, dwelling in the 
old homesteads which had never (so they boasted) passed out of 
the name ; or swarming in new hives, destined, as they hoped, to 
a similar permanence. Everywhere Alby was made much of ; 
all said that he must be very happy to live with his grandfather, 
and that they hoped he would one day be as good a man. It 
being Saturday afternoon, all invited him to stay to tea, and 
promised him a dish of local celebrity, which on the eve of the 
Sabbath smoked on every decent supper-table in Yantic : — baked 
beans and pork. Alby wanted to accept the first invitation, but 
finding that he was sure of the regale anywhere, he declined the 
subsequent invitations with the best grace. Upon the whole, it 
may be doubted whether any scion of English aristocracy was 
ever more impressed by a visit to the stately manorial residence 
of his race than* was our Alban by his, to the rural city founded 
by his Puritan and republican ancestors, who, indeed, had been 
the founders, not of that single community only, but of vast 
commonwealths. 

It was not till they had finished the round of calls, and had 
turned their faces homeward, the day-star being already sunk 
beneath the wooded hills, that Rachel opened to Betsey 
Atherton the scheme with which her mind was now profoundly 
exercised. It was two-fold. First, she wanted to establish in the 
family a weekly “ concert of prayer,” for the “ conversion” of 
all its members : — this met Bessie’s warmest approval. Secondly,' 
she wanted Bessie to unite with her in a project for converting 
the Indian village between Yanmouth and the “Falls” to real 
Christianity, and for giving them the regular institutions of the 
gospel. 

“ It is most desirable,” said Bessie ; “ but how are we to 
accomplish so good an object ?” 


ALBAN, 


41 


“We are to go and live among them,” replied Rachel , “ teach 
the women and children, — hold regular prayer meetings with the 
former.” 

“ But how is my father’s housekeeping and yours to go on 
meanwhile, my dear Rachel ? Our mothers depend on us, you 
know.” 

“ Why,” said Rachel, “ Ma is as zealous as I am in the 
matter ; she has agreed to take weeks with me ; you must do the 
same with grandmamma ; and then we can reside alternately a 
week at a time at Mohegan Town.” 

“ What, alone !” exclaimed Bessie, in alarm. “ Oh no : 1 
could not. Besides, my mother, you know, is too far advanced in 
years, for the fatigues and care of housekeeping. Really, it does 
not seem to be my duty to throw them upon her every alternate 
week, in order that I may go teach the Indians.” 

“ What is to become of the Indians, then, in the next world, 
Betsey ?” asked Rachel Atherton. 

“ Very true,” said Betsey, much perplexed. “ But to take 
weeks with me would soon kill mamma.” 

This checked the ardent missionary for a moment, but she 
soon returned to the charge. “ Why cannot the house go on for 
a week at a time without your superintendence ? Some things 
might not be quite so well done as you would do them, but with 
servants so well trained as yours, it could not amount to much, 
and grandpa is so good a man, I am sure that he would cheer- 
fully submit to it for the sake of saving souls.” 

Bessie laughed outright. 

“ You know nothing about the care of superintending a house 
full of black servants, dear Rachel. Your Esther will get along 
well enough in your absence ; she is a sharp New England girl ; 
but to think of Hagar and Sam being left to ‘ rule the roast — 
‘ de Cassle’ w'ould be topsy-turvy in half a week ! What do 
you think, Alby ; could you do without aunty a week at the 
Castle ?” 

“ I wish you could go and save the Indians, aunty, said the 

4 * 


42 


ALBAN. 


child, who felt the contagion of his cousin Rachel’s enthusiasm, 
more than the justice of his aunt Betsey’s reasoning. 

“ My opinion is,” said Tom Mansfield, who had been giving the 
bay horse a good many cuts with his whip, while the discussion 
proceeded, “ that the weeks aunt Betsey went to Mohegan they 
would have to eat sour bread at the Castle.” 


ALBAN. 


43 


CHAPTER VII. 

Rachel Atherton was not a girl to be defeated by any thing 
short of impossibilities in a scheme that had once thoroughly 
engaged her enthusiasm. After failing in every other argument, 
she had one sure card in the peculiar family pride of the Athertons 
— a pride which attached itself far more to the high religious char- 
acter of their ancestors than to their worldly position. It was a 
source of unacknowledged, but more real, self-complaisance to 
Elizabeth Atherton herself, as we may have seen reason to sus- 
pect, that her race was distinguished by an incontaminate piety 
and saintly devotion, than that it appertained to the gentry of the 
land. That the first Atherton in the colony had enjoyed among 
his fellow-settlers the exclusive title of Mister, that they had 
given a President to Congress, Governors to States, Judges to the 
Supreme Bench, Generals to the army of the Revolution, and, 
brightest distinction of all, a “ Signer” to the Declaration, was 
nothing in comparison to the number of devout and learned min- 
isters they had produced, and to the fact, often mentioned in their 
annals, that the blood of an early apostle to the Indians flowed in 
their veins. In addition to these glories in its spiritual escutcheon, 
the family was always conspicuous for the piety of many of its fe- 
male members : more than one volume of “ Memoirs,” illustrating 
the remarkable Christian graces of some daughter of their house, 
gone to the grave in her virgin bloom, perhaps in a holy childhood, 
or of some lovely matron — the scion of another tree transplanted 
into the Atherton inclosure — who, if she had not drawn her blood 
from them, had infused into them of her own, enriched the hagi- 
ography of New England. But as yet the name had produced no 
female missionaries, and the missionary character was separated 
from every other to a New England apprehension, as if its posses- 
sors were almost of a different species. The popular idea of these 


44 


ALBAN. 


laborers of either sex, especially when their self-devotion had been 
consecrated by a premature death, approximated to that of the 
saints among Catholics. 

Rachel made a visit at the Castle, and staid a week. She 
talked of her missionary project the whole time, and appealed 
successfully to the feelings which we have described, the more 
successfully, because unconsciously, as one who was profoundly 
influenced by them herself, without being aware of it. Old Mrs. 
Atherton, indeed, was entirely deaf to all that her granddaughter 
could urge, but her opposition was almost passive, or at least, con- 
fined itself to sallies of witty ridicule, while over her grandfather, 
who was fond of her, Rachel gained a complete victory. He was 
very assailable by the idea that he might be suffering considera- 
tions of his own temporal comfort to stand in the way of the eter- 
nal welfare of his benighted fellow-creatures. Mrs. Atherton’s 
old-fashioned high churchmanship, associated, as it was, with a 
scarcely concealed Toryism in politics, rendered her influence in 
the family, on a religious question, nihil. Rachel quite plainly 
intimated that grandma’s indifference was akin to that of Gallio. 
Even Betsey feared it was a proof that her mother had not expe- 
rienced a vital change of heart. It was out of the question, how- 
ever, she said, for her to take part in the new enterprise, as long as 
Alby remained under her care. It would be betraying a trust to 
quit him in order to teach Indians. But she promised that in the 
autumn, when he returned to his parents for the six months, she 
would allow Jane Mansfield to take her place on the alternate 
weeks at the Castle, and become Rachel’s co-laborer at Mohe<Tan. 

Jane Mansfield was the hoyden of sixteen introduced to the 
reader on the Sunday evening described in the third chapter of 
this book. She was the granddaughter of General Atherton, of 
course, and their almost daily visitor, but to consent to her being 
substituted for his daughter was no doubt a great sacrifice to the 
claims of Christian charity. A more serious one was in store for 
General Atherton. It often happens that when good men make 
a formal resignation of any possession to God, scarce expecting, 


ALBAN. 


45 


perhaps, to be- called upon to make it actual, he takes them at 
their word. 

The autumn came, September blowing eastern gales, aird 
October breathing southern airs. The parents of our little hero 
came on to Yanraouth with their younger children, to spend a 
fortnight and keep Thanksgiving. There was a round of 
dinners and teas in the ancient town, and the mutual hospitali- 
ties extended even to Yantic Falls. “ Woe worth the day” to the 
turkeys, as the first Thursday in November approached. Gen- 
eral Atherton entertained at dinner at least twenty of his rela- 
tives, chiefly his children and grown-up grandehildren, besides 
as many more j uveniles. The principal table was spread in the 
great parlor ; the children feasted in the smaller ordinary 
dining-room. The E,t. Rev. Dr Richard Gray, Mrs. Atherton’s 
brother, an “ Episcopal bishop,” (as the Yanmouth people pleo- 
nastically termed him,) said grace before, and the Rev. David 
Atherton Devotion, the new pastor of the Yanmouth Congrega- 
tional church, made a long prayer, by way of grace, after dinner ; 
almost as long as that with which he had opened the morning 
service. Some of the ‘guests, females of course, who had never 
seen a bishop before, except at confirmation, wondered that 
Dr. Gray did not wear his robes on this occasion. Dr. Gray 
and Mr. Devotion were extremely cordial, though the bishop 
thought the minister unordained, and the minister returned the 
compliment by thinking the prelate unconverted. Both did 
justice to their host’s Thanksgiving cheer, and (especially the 
bishop) to his fine old wines. With what consummate grace old 
!Mrs. Atherton presided ! how well, apropos to some obsolete 
plate, she told (for the hundredth time at least) the story of her 
entertaining the Due de Lauzun, the Marquis de Lafayette, and 
half a dozen more French officers of rank, at a dinner, “ not 
nearly so good as this, you must know,” at Yantic Falls, in the 
Revolutionary war ! With what an air of unaffected pity for 
the present generation, she deelared that the Due was “truly” a 
gentleman, and with what a graeious mixture of sadness and 


46 


ALBAN. 


sense of the historical dignity of the event she alluded to his 
subsequent fate. “ You know,” she said, (every body knew it,) 
“he was guillotined in that terrible French Revolution.” 

They observed early hours in those days. Dinner, even on 
Thanksgiving day, was served at two o’clock, p. m., and at half- 
past six, “ the drawing-room” (opened only on such occasions) 
was already lighted up for the evening party that followed. 
This apartment, so famous in Yanmouth, was adorned with a 
cream-colored carpet of roses, in a single piece, and high-backed 
chairs, gorgeously worked on yellow satin, by the hands of 
patient female Athertons. But it could not suffice that evening 
for the company which overflowed into all the apartments of the 
floor ; even the sacred recesses of “ the bedroom,” converted into 
a depository for gentlemen’s hats and overcoats, admitted parties 
of both sexes, seeking rest after dancing. For they still danced 
in New England, even in pious families, although the line 
was already beginning to be more strictly drawn. But the 
voluptuous dances of Germany and Russia had not yet obtained 
a footing in the new world. Cotillions and country dances suffi- 
ciently interested the youth and the youthful beauty at General 
Atherton’s ; besides that, two ladies of the old school, in matronly 
brocades, performed a minuet. 

The week after these festivities Betsey Atherton commenced 
her missionary labors. On one Saturday evening Rachel came 
to Mohegan-town from the Falls ; on the next, her aunt ar- 
rived from Yanmouth to take her place ; and thus through the 
winter they alternated, regardless of weather, of the discomforts 
of their temporary abode, of the solitude of their work. Fre- 
quently, they both went and returned from their mission on foot. 
Coarse was their diet ; hard their couch ; comfortless their crowd- 
ed school-room ; tedious their task of instruction, with pupils 
who had the primary habits of attention to acquire, as well as the 
simplest elements of knowledge. They were cheered by each 
other’s presence even only for an hour or two on the Saturday, — 
hours which they sanctified by devoting them to united prayer for 


ALBAN. 


47 


the objects of the mission. They then held a female prayer-meet- 
ing for the squaws, of about a half-hour’s duration, begun and 
closed with a hymn sung by their own sweet voices only ; then 
fervently embraced, and parted for another week. 

The solicitudes of Rachel Atherton w'ere not limited to pro- 
curing for the neglected people she had undertaken to Christianize, 
merely such religious and temporal instruction as two young 
ladies could bestow ; she would not be satisfied with any thing 
short of seeing the Mohegans converted into a community of Con- 
gregationalists, with a church. and settled pastor of their own, a 
permanent school, and all the elements of New England civiliza- 
tion. To realize these objects, she resolved to apply at once to the 
government of the United States. She boldly wrote in her own 
name to the Secretary of War, to whose bureau all Indian affairs 
belong, to advocate the claims of her protegees. A nephew of 
General Atherton, and of course the cousin of Rachel and Eliza- 
beth, had a seat in the Federal Senate. She obtained his support 
without difficulty ; and a petition which the secretary might have 
found reasons for evading if it had been urged in any other way, 
became irresistible when it was advanced in the name of two 
young ladies, who had first devoted themselves with so much self- 
denial to the cause which they advocated. A sum was granted 
from the Indian appropriation to build a meeting-house and par- 
sonage, and support a minister among the remnant of the Mohe- 
gans. In the spring, with the rains that softened the frozen soil 
of the Yantic valley, a shower (as Rachel and Betsey believed) 
of divine grace descended to soften the colder hearts of the half- 
savage inhabitants of the Indian village. Several adults of both 
sexes gave, in the language of the country and the time, “ no 
equivocal tokens of being the subjectsof a gracious work,” and 
when thorough examination by the church at the Falls had suffi- 
ciently proved this, as was thought, they were baptized. 

Such a work as this could not be carried on in secret. The 
enterprise of the Misses Atherton became a topic of conversation 
in all the religious circles of New England ; its success was 


48 


ALBAN. 


prayed for in monthly concerts ; sympathizers in remote towns 
sent contributions of money, books, and clothing, in aid of ^the 
interesting and successful mission. The youth and personal love- 
liness of the mis'sionaries could not but transpire. Unmarried 
ministers felt their interest peculiarly excited ; and some of these 
were in a position to allow of their manifesting it. 

The Rev. President Hopewell was a distinguished preacher 
and divine, whose reputation at the age of thirty had placed him 
at the head of a rising New England college. He was in search 
of a wife, and he came to Yantic Falls to apply for the hand of 
Rachel Atherton, although he had never seen her. He was 
handsome, intellectual, self-confident, a man much coveted ; he 
made his advances with graceful skill. But Rachel was far above 
being thus diverted from her work. She thanked him with en- 
chanting expressions of sympathy, and recommended him to try 
a friend of hers who had leisure to be married and who was far 
more fitted than herself to adorn the station he offered. Before 
taking this advice the President went down to Yanmouth to see 
Elizabeth. Betsey Atherton was withheld by no such lofty 
notions as those which inffuenced her friend in the rejection of 
every kind of matrimonial project ; but Betsey Atherton had, 
what even Ruchel had not — a purely virgin soul, to which not 
this or that wedlock, but marriage itself, was a thing to recoil 
from. It was not that she lacked the tender instincts of her sex, 
as we have seen in the case of Lieutenant Harvey. She was 
proud, not cold ; delicate in her thoughts, and therefore exacting 
in her ideal. She would have been perfect, if in the way she 
had been brought up she could have apprehended the living object 
which alone can absorb the heart without defiling it, — of which 
she could have said. Quern, cum amavero, casta sum ; cum teti- 
gero, munda sum; cum accipero^ virgo sum. 

Betsey Atherton was one of those, who, as the proverb is, are 
“ not long for this world.” She caught cold in her visits to 
Mohegan-town. The school-room was crannysome, and full of 
draughts. In the spring she had a cough — fatal sign on the 


ALBAN. 


49 


New England coast. Our young Alban was with his aunt again 
in the summer, at her urgent wish, though she was already 
marked visibly for the grave. She had one of those beautiful, 
rapid declines of which we mostly read in books. After the first 
shock of learning her danger, she neither hoped to recover, as 
most do, nor feared to die. Her frame of mind was even sweeter 
as her disease advanced, and her death was triumphant. Its 
effect upon our Alban’s story is what we have here to note. For 
General Atherton did not long survive his daughter’s loss ; the 
Mansfields moved into the Castle, now become old Mrs. Atherton’s 
house ; and it ceased to be one of our hero’s homes. We must 
follow him to another. 

6 


BOOK 11. 


Itjinnl; nr, tliB 33n3Bintnt. €)}i Itrn Sssimilctts. 


CHAPTER I. 

It came about the time of the great September gale, and was 
very like one in its eflects. As sometimes it is one of the 
mightiest trees that is uprooted by a hurricane, so often it is a 
colossal fortune that is prostrated by a crisis. Ever since the 
unexpected peace had toppled down half the commercial houses 
in the United States, Samuel Atherton had been gallantly fight- 
ing for his credit. Knowing himself to be solvent, it was hard 
to strike under a sudden broadside from an unexpected enemy. 
The treason of a confidential agent, whom he had just made his 
partner, and who absconded after using his name to a fearful 
extent to cover his own private losses at the gaming-table, was 
the immediate cause of Mr. Atherton’s stopping payment. We 
may as well say at once that he ultimately paid every thing, but 
for the time all was lost. He saved nothing for himself. Even 
his wife’s fortune, just paid by her father’s executors, was 
swept into the vortex. Plate, library, pictures, carriage, of course, 
went under the hammer, and from the fine mansion in State- 
street, hitherto so hospitable in the worst of times, the family 
were forced to remove into a small house in the jail liberties, to 
avoid at least a prison ; and from that safe point Mr. Atherton 
began as a poor man to reconstruct his fortunes. 


ALBAN. 


51 


The aspect of New York at that time was very different 
from that which the city exhibits at present. The neighborhood 
of the Battery (then a safe and delightful play-ground for 
children) was the aristocratic quarter of the town, occupied by 
large and well-built mansions, and distinguished by its air of 
seclusion. In Whitehall, where now a dozen omnibuses at once 
are thundering at every instant down to the South Ferry, over a 
pavement shattered and gullied by their incessant wheels, the 
grass then grew in the middle of the street. Wall, William, 
Beaver, Broad, and the contiguous streets, were full of little old' 
Dutch houses, with high gables, rising in narrow steps to their 
apex. There were no palaces then on the yet unknown Fifth 
Avenue, rivalling those of the merchant aristocracies of Italy ; 
Mr. Upjohn had not thickly sprinkled the city (the half of 
which did not exist) with those churches of brown stone, so 
beautiful in detail, of which the material will always excuse the 
architectural defects. Mr. Atherton, then, attended public wor- 
ship in Wall-street, in the First Presbyterian church, which the 
rising generation will know nothing of, though it has not ceased to 
exist, having been transported like Aladdin’s palace, as it were, 
without displacing a stone, into New Jersey. On Christmas, 
which Presbyterians then did not observe, the children were 
taken by their nursery-maid to old Trinity, to see “ the greens,” 
enjoy the mysterious music of the organ, (equally unknown as yet 
to Puritan assemblies,) and wonder at the under-ground murmur 
of the responses, at the minister’s “white gown,” and the strange 
and almost awful change to black which preceded the sermon. 
In those days the reality of Santa Claus was unsuspected, and 
Alban with his brothers suspended their stockings over the 
chimney-piece on Christmas eve, earnestly begging that a candle 
might be left burning, whereby the good-natured visitant, the 
lover of children, when he descended the chimney with his 
reindeer-sledge, might not fail to peruse the certificates of good 
conduct carefully pinned to the carved wooden mantels. 

Poetical elements mingled in the existence of the young Knick- 


52 


ALBAN. 


erbockers in those days of which our vulgar modern New Yorkers 
know nothing. What a glorious region for Alban and his set 
was the district of rocky heights and wild ponds within a hoy’s 
afternoon walk of the City Hall ! What kite-flying in spring on 
the former ! what rare skating in winter on the latter ! How 
the clear ice-tracts embraced the snowy islets, and formed endless 
labyrinths among the thick, leafless marsh bushes, where it 
was a pleasure to be lost ! What a place for fun and fear was the 
City Hall itself, with its long vaulted corridors, its mysterious lob- 
bies, dark basement cells, its marble staircases, echoing dome, its 
gallery and terrace. Every Saturday afternoon they played in it, 
ignorant as it was of the blackguards and loafers who now loiter 
about the Park, and fearmg only lest “ Old Hays” should seize 
them for climbing too adventurously along the perilous basement 
ledge under the windows of the public offices, or for trampling 
down the grass of the Park, by “ double base,” or “ every man to 
his own den.” 

“ The army,” said Uncle Toby, “ swore terribly in Flanders.” 
Scbool-boys swore terribly in New York in the days of which we 
speak, and they did not limit themselves to swearing. A language 
j even worse than profane was but too frequently on their lips. 
The ears of our Alban, at this period of his life, became familiar 
with a phraseology to which at Yanmouth he had certainly never 
been accustomed. At first it shocked, then it amused him ; by 
and by he took a certain pleasure in hearing and repeating it ; 
(we are sorry to record these infirmities, but historic truth obliges 
us ;) and although a sense of delicacy in part, and in part an honest 
fear of being wicked, withheld him from both profanity and coarse- 
ness de 'proprio motu, yet we fear that he was often ashamed of 
his own timidity. There was one peculiarity of his position at this 
time which deserves to be noticed. Alban had no sisters, and 
from the retirement in which his parents lived he could not boast 
so much as the acquaintance of any young persons of his own age, 
but of an opposite sex. His school intimates were boys either sis- 
terless like himself, or whose sisters had grown up, or at whose 


ALBAN 


53 


homes he was not allowed to visit. He had the sweet recollection 
of his aunt, and he knew the reserved tenderness of his mother ; 
but apart from these influences, it was a hard, a boisterous, and a 
far from refined society in which he lived. Yet all agreed that 
Alb Atherton, though foremost in sports, for innocence of manners 
and sweetness of temper was the girl of the school. And he was 
the notorious favorite of the masters. There was nothing that he 
could not learn, and he got on so rapidlyT.hat he read the Eneid 
through for pleasure while his class were working at the first book. 
The mathematical teacher was forced to give him recitations apart, 
he devoured Euclid with such impatience. 

Indeed, our young hero displayed an insatiable appetite for 
every species of knowledge. On the heights where he flew his kite, 
the strata of which the fatal process of grading for new-invading 
streets had already laid bare, he mineralized in his small way, and 
his spare cash (not much to boast of) went to augment his speci- 
mens or to enrich a tiny collection of shells and coins. The huge 
volumes of the, British Encyclopedia were for ever littering his 
mother’s sitting-room, while Alban, as far as he could without 
assistance, patiently mastered its elaborate treatises, which he could 
not know were, in the march of science, already obsolete. At this 
time the Waverley novels were issuing from the press, and his 
father got them from the libraries as they appeared ; but the perusal 
of Waverley, when he was about nine years old, so excited the 
boy’s imagination, that Mr. Atherton would not even allow his son 
to hear another of the series. But there was an old copy of the 
Arabian Nights, saved with the Encyclopedia from the sale ; and 
one birthday, his father gave him a large Pictorial Pilgrim’s Pro- 
gress : — at twelve, Alban knew these and Shakspeare almost by 
heart. 

“ This boy has no moderation in any thing,” said his father ; 
“ he tires himself to pieces with playing in the streets, and then he 
buries himself in a corner with a book till he is almost blind. 

“ I wish Alban would not play in the street at all,” said his 
mother, “ or at least that he would keep in sight of the house 

5 ' 


54 


ALBAN . 


Grey-street is quiet, (for it is not a thoroughfare,) and it is almost 
as clean as our own yard. I should think it would be a great deal 
better for any plays than Hudson or Greenwich, or that odious 
Park.” 

“ You can’t keep such a boy in bounds, in a city like New 
York.” 

“ That is what I am afraid of,” replied his mother, “ that he 
cannot be kept in bounds. I don’t like all his associates. And 
he is getting into bad habits already — ” (“ Bad habits !” ejaculated 
Mr. Atherton) — “ why only last night he and Bob Simmons were 
out till nine o’clock, double knocking at all the doors, and ringing 
all the bells for a dozen squares.” 

“ What, Alban !” exclaimed Mr. Atherton, with a hearty 
laugh. 

“ Certainly ; they call it playing the Old Harry ! Bob wanted 
to break a pane of glass in every house, but Alb would not consent. 
Robert Simmons is a very bad boy,” said Mrs. Atherton emphati- 
cally. Mr. Atherton laughed again. 

“ The Simmonses are our next-door neighbors, you know, my 
dear, so that Alban would not avoid Bob, even if he never stirred 
out of Grey-street. Mr. Simmons is alderman of the ward, and 
a member of the church ; and he is rich. You can’t forbid our 
son associating with his. Boys must take their chance.” ' 

“ I believe that a city is a bad place for the education of boys,” 
replied Mrs. Atherton. “ See the young Mortons. If Alban 
should turn out dissipated like one of them, it would break my 
heart.” 

” Would you be willing to send him away to school ?” asked 
her husband. 

“ If poor Elizabeth had lived, he might have fitted for college 
at Yanmouth,” was Mrs. Atherton’s indirect reply. “ As it is, I 
don’t know where I could be willing to send him, unless to your 
Sister Fanny’s, at Babylon.” 

Our hero was destined to owe a great deal to maiden aunts. 
The virgin sister of his mother had watched over his childhood • 


ALBAN . 


• 55 


the virgin sister of his father was to preside over his incipient 
manhood ; for it is somewhere, we think, from twelve to sixteen, 
that young Americans begin to he men. Aunt Fanny lived in her 
own house at Babylon, which was a small country village in the 
green heart of the State of New York. She had brought up al- 
ready one generation of young Athertons, motherless cousins of 
Alban, and was now trying her hand on another — her great 
nephews and nieces — with whom, in point of age, our hero might 
be classed. Aunt Fanny had a very poor opinion of Mrs. Samuel 
Atherton’s domestic management, and had been anxious for a long 
time to extend to the latter’s children the benefits of her own e.x- 
perience. To send Alban thither, to finish his preparation for col- 
lege, was therefore an eligible plan, and to execute as easy as 
talking. 

Babylon, an ancient colonial fort of great fame in the early 
Indian wars, had been effectively settled soon after the Revolution 
by the paternal uncles of our hero, who had migrated thither 
from Yantic with their flocks and herds, or, in plain English, 
with the proceeds of their patrimony converted into continental 
currency. The rich farms of the vast township belonged chiefly 
to them, and from one of them, in solemn but characteristic jest, 
it had received its ridiculous name. The village boasted a select 
school of high provincial repute, founded under their patronage 
and chiefly sustained by their liberality. 


56 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER II. 

“ He is a fool,” said young Alban. 

The blank was filled up at the time by a profane expletive, 
with which we would not willingly sully our pages. 

The first oath ! It was the first, and Alban had not uttered it 
in a rage, but with cool premeditation. He did it to seem manly. 
It was for the same reason that he had tried to smoke cigars, un- 
successfully, for his cerebral temperament was absolutely intoler- 
ant of the narcotic. “ He is a fool.” The expression was 

neither scholarly, nor gentlemanlike, nor Christian, nor even 
intelligible, and Alban thought of it a good deal that night in bed, 
before falling asleep. 

The day following Alban swore again, not faintly as at first, 
but ore rotunda, and that two or three times. He is getting on. 
But it was that evening that he learned from his father that he 
was going to Babylon to school. 

“ I have begun to swear just at the wrong time,” said Alban 

to himself “ That last to-day really came out without 

thinking ; what if I should get into a habit of it before I go to 
Babylon. They are all so very religious at Babylon. There has 
been a great revival, and I don’t know how many have joined 
the church. My cousin Henry is a convert, and George St. Clair 
— the only fellows there that I do care about. George has written 
me a long letter about religion, and saving my soul. What will 
they think of my swearing ? I must certainly break myself of it 
at once. Certainly the habit of swearing is a dreadful thing. 
Every body says so. People have been struck dead for swearing. 
What would Aunt Betsey say to my using such expressions ! 
Perhaps she saw and heard me at that moment. God saw me at 
any rate, and heard me too. I believe I have been very wicked, 
and very silly. Oh, our Father in heaven !” he concluded with 


ALBAN . 


U' 

57 

himself, “ help me not to swear any more, and give me a new 
heart, so that I may not wish to swear.” 

Alban prayed to this effect very earnestly. The prime and 
moving reason doubtless was the fear of disgracing himself in the 
sanctified public opinion of young Babylon, which, after the great 
revival, must be so very different from that of young New York. 
But this primary influence of human origin awakened also the 
slumbering conscience, smiting it internally with the rod of the 
sudden perception of the Divine Presence. Under this impression 
he wrote a very pious letter in reply to George St. Clair’s, a letter 
which filled Babylon — young and old — with rejoicing, and which 
caused Alban, when about a month after he arrived there, to be 
greeted universally as a “ young convert.” Wicked boy ! little 
hypocrite ! not for resolving, although from motives partly human, 
to avoid profane language ; not for resolving to be as good as 
possible in future ; in both which he was of course right : — but 
for allowing himself to pass as one mysteriously sanctified, in a 
society where the notion of such a supernatural change was 
current. 

The greatest difficulty in going to Babylon was the physical 
one of the journey ; not a serious one by any means, but neither 
so short nor so easy as at present. Our little hero embarked at 
New York on a steamboat, at nine o’clock one fine May morning, 
under the protection of a Babylonish uncle. It was thought to 
have been a good passage when they disembarked at Albany at 
three p. m. of the day following. The next day conveyed them by 
stage up the wild Mohawk valley. It was only on reaching the 
central table-land of the State, that a canal-boat offered to Alban 
the delight of a yet untried mode of travel. It was at noon of 
the fourth day that they arrived at Babylon. 

Alban forthwith received a class of very little boys in the 
Babylon Sunday-school ; he was invited to attend the “ young 
converts’ prayer-meeting,” composed of about a dozen boys of 
from twelve to sixteen years, all “ hopefully pious,” and all (but 
himself) already ” church members and Mr. Jeremiah Cant- 


58 


ALBAN. 


well, a candidate for the ministry, and beneficiary of the Ladies’ 
Benevolent Sewing Society, which had called him from the oc- 
cupation of a journeyman hatter to pursue his studies at Babylon 
school, and who presided at the aforesaid young converts’ prayer- 
meeting, called upon Alban the very first night to “ lead in 
prayer.” 

Tremendous moment ! our hero would have given worlds to 
decline ; but before he could utter a syllable the whole meeting 
was on its knees, each young convert with his face buried in his 
hands, and his elbows supported on his chair. There was a 
moment’s dead silence, and Alban, desperate, plunged in medias 
res. His quick perception took in at once the situation with all its 
proprieties, and if from the utter want of experience his prayer 
was somewhat unique in Babylon, it was not on that account less 
refreshing. He warmed as he got on. He had in fact opened a 
new vein. Recollections of his maternal grandfather’s daily 
fervent appeals to Heaven shot like lightning through his mind — 
a torrent of devotional eloquence flowed forth. 

“ What a prayer you made, Alban !” said his cousin Henry, 
as they walked home arm in arm. “ We had no idea of your 
having such a gift.” 

Aunt Fanny’s cottage was an irregular, rambling structure, 
the several members of which had been erected at different 
times, as convenience or necessity required. It was of wood, 
and painted white, of course, and stood on the skirts of the 
village, in the centre of an ample garden, orchard, and green 
shrubbery tastefully laid out. The moon shone bright on the 
gravelled walks as the young cousins flung behind them the 
swinging gate ; and before they reached the open front door, 
a little girl in a white frock came out upon the steps to meet 
them. 

“ Have you had a good meeting?” she asked. 

“ Very interesting,” said Henry Atherton. 

The child took the answerer a little apart from Alban, and 
whispered in his ear. Henry replied in the same tone. 


ALBAN . 


59 


“ No secrets,” said Alban, rather awkwardly, for he suspected 
the subject of the conference. 

“ Oh, it is no secret,” said the young girl, putting her hand in 
his. “ Come, let us all sit down on the sill. There ! you, Henry, 
on this side, and Alban on the other, me between you. There is 
just room for us three.” 

They did so. She was a pretty little creature, nearly of 
Alban’s age ; with large blue eyes, the most dazzling skin, and 
long flaxen ringlets, flowing nearly to her waist. She put one 
of her white bare arms round Henry Atherton’s neck, but she only 
looked affectionately from time to time at Alban as he sat very, 
very close to her side on the door-sill. 

Thus we may leave them ; Alban being, as it were, in a new 
world. 


60 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER III. 

All the j’-oung converts at Babylon kept journals. Henry Ather- 
ton (lid; Jane did; and so Alban did. Here is a leaf from 
Alban’s. It will give us a notion of him at that period of life. 
Some of it is spicy. 

“ Aug. 15.” (There is no Anno Domini, but he is thirteen 
and a half years old.) “ I have been now three months at B. 
When I first arrived, I remember being puzzled by St. Clair’s 
asking me in Sunday-school, whether I had yet experienced any 
decline in my religion. I suppose I understand now what he 
meant. My heart is very cold, and I certainly no" longer feel the 
same pleasure in prayer that I used. By George’s asking the 
question, it is a regular thing, I take it. 

“Sept. 15. Aunt Fanny entertained me to-day with an ex- 
planation of the Book of Revelations, which she understands, as 
she does the whole Bible, in a sense quite peculiar to herself. 
She thinks the seven Churches of Asia, denote the seven Chris- 
tian denominations of the present day, viz. ; the Catholic, the 
Episcopalian, the Presbyterian, the Methodist, the Baptist, the 
Congregationalist, and the (Quakers. She pretends to fix each 
Church. Thus the Laodiceans are the Episcopal Church, because 
it is ‘ neither eold nor hot ;’ the Guakers are the ‘ Church of Phila- 
delphia,’ of course ; the Presbyterian, (on which she is very 
severe,) is the ‘ Church at Sardis,’ for it has the name of beiiio- 
alive, and is dead, yet has a few names which have not defiled 
their garments. The Methodists are the ‘ Church of Thyatira,’ 
because its works are mentioned twice, showing that they believe 
in perfection. The Roman Catholics long puzzled her, for 
the description of each of the Churches seemed to suit them 
exactly, one not more than another ; but at last she concluded 
they must be the ‘ Church at Pergamos,’ because ‘ it dwells where 


V 


ALBAN . 


61 


Satan’s seat is.’ It seems to me there is a good deal of fancy in 
this, hut-*! love to hear her talk. There is a new servant — 
‘help,’ I mean — come to-day, a tall, handsome girl, with black 
eyes : I must find out if she is a Christian. 

“ Nov. 5. I am afraid that Jane is going back as well as I. 
I have long kept up, under the sense of my own declension, 
because I thought she would not fall away. A girl — that is, 
like my cousin Jane — seems so pure a being. I can’t imagine 
her having one of the thoughts that daily come into my mind. 
Then she never hears the language that I do. To be sure, I 
don’t associate much with boys of my own age. I wonder if 
girls ever use bad language when they are by themselves. 

“ Nov. 10. Jane is always in the house with Polly and Maggie. 
They are very good servants, but not fit companions for a young 
lady. It can’t be well helped in Maggie’s case, for they are of 
the same age. Indeed, till Polly came, we all amused ourselves 
together, and very innocently. Now the girls keep by them- 
selves, and I cannot help suspecting mischief. If so, Polly, with 
her black eyes and pouting red lips, is at the bottom of it. She 
is eighteen years old, four years older than any of us, and she 
ought to know better. 

“ Dec. 10. Just a month since I wrote last. It was the very 
next day that Jane first hinted to me privately that Polly 
amused them when they were alone by telling them ludicrous 
stories. I had a great mind to tell Aunt Fanny at once, but 
finally concluded to tax Polly herself. In her defence, she told 
me one of the stories, at which I could not help laughing. From 
that it has gone on, till we have come to listen and repeat, — ■ 
all of us. Even Jane will repeat the ‘funniest things,’ as Polly 
calls them, before my face, without a blush. We spend thus 
almost every one of the long evenings in that great kitchen, 
with its bright floor and roaring fire of logs. It is a curious 
thing that that little German, Madeleine, whom aunt employs for 
charity, and who cannot speak pure English, will not hear a 
word bordering on indelicacy. At the first hint, she sticks her 

6 


62 


ALBAN. 


fingers in her ears, and runs off. She puts us all to shame, 1 
must say, for she has scarcely clothes to her back, can neither 
read nor write, and prays to the Virgin Mary, I believe, evdfy 
night and morning. With all our superior light, — for even Maggie 
reads her Bible daily, — we are not so good as this ignorant and 
superstitious child. 

“ Dec. 20. I have been trying to convert the little Madeleine. 
I wanted her to let me read the ten commandments to her out of 
our Bible, that she might see the wickedness of worshipping 
images, but she would not listen, any more than to Polly’s equivo- 
cal stories. She said she had learned the ten commandments m 
her catechism, and that was enough for her. 

“ ‘ But, Madeleine,’ said I, ‘ your priests leave out one of the 
commandments. I only want to read you that one, to show 
you what a sin you commit in worshipping the cross and the 
Virgin Mary.’ 

“ ‘ I guess there is one of the commandments left out by your 
priest, Mr. Alban,’ replied the little sauce-box, ‘ or else you don’t 
tell him of your carryings on with Polly and Miss Jane, when 
you go to confession.’ 

“ ‘ We never go to confession, Madeleine,’ said I, rather red, I 
guess, for I was cut, and speaking sharply too, — ‘ that is one of 
your popish corruptions.’ 

“ ‘ Ah, Mr. Alban,’ she said, ‘ I thought you didn’t go to 
confession, or you would know some things to be sins, which now, 
perhaps, you think are not.’ 

“ ‘ And why do you pray to the Virgin, Madeleine, instead of 
to God ?’ She was cleaning her knives, and could irot get away, 
or I believe she would have run. After a while, as I persisted in 
questioning her, she answered, very pertinently, I must admit, ‘ I 
do pray to God.’ 

“ ‘ Why then do you pray to the Virgin too ? Do you think 
that God cannot hear you ? or that the Virgin is more willing to 
answer your prayers than He ?’ 


ALBAN . 


63 


“ She looked puzzled, and only after some time answered, in the 
words of the catechism, doubtless, — 

“ ‘ The Holy Virgin and Saints, hear us in God, and God’s 
charity makes them ivilling to pray for us !’ With what a touch- 
ing foreign accent the poor girl said this. It is no answer, of course, 
yet I did not know exactly how to meet it. 

“ Dec. 25. Christmas, and no dinner ! My father always 
has a Christmas dinner. I went to the Episcopal church last 
evening, for the first time in Babylon, although it is directly 
opposite aunt Fanny’s. It is merely a long room, and a very 
low ceiling ; but dressed with the greens, and lighted up, it 
looked really beautiful. The pulpit had a canopy, like a crown, 
of evergreen mixed with white artificial roses. The roses formed 
the name Immanuel. The pulpit, too, and the desk under it, 
(I like having a prayer-desk,) were a mass of dark foliage ; and 
the communion table, which is not bigger than aunt’s workstand, 
being covered with white, and having all the silver vessels on it, 
was a kind of sparkling centre right in front of the desk. The 
rails were hung with heavy festoons of spruce boughs, and white 
drapery to match. I must say I liked it, and more particularly 
that reading the psalms alternately by the minister and the people. 
Old King Nebuchadnezzar, as the boys call him — the church- 
warden, uncle says he is — gave me a prayer-book, and found me 
the places. I dare say he was pleased to see one of the Atherton 
boys come to his church. I was almost ashamed to join in the 
reading at first, but by degrees I grew accustomed to hear my 
voice, and, ‘ responded’ as they call it, with the best of them. 

“ Dec. 27. Sunday. I have been to the Episcopal church 
again to-day, with B who is allowed to go because his family 
are Episcopalians. Aunt don’t like it, I see, but she says nothing, 
except that the Episcopal Church is lukewarm, like thatof Laodi- 
cea. The Episcopal service takes hold of me wonderfully. It is 
so pleasant to have something to do in church besides stand up 
and sit down. But I am afraid there are few spiritual Christians 
among them. I call to mind grandpa, and aunt Betsey, and 


64 


ALBAN. 


cousin Rachel, and all the shining Christians I have ever known. 
None of them were Episcopalians. Our cousins, the Greys, in 
New York, are of this Church, but they do not seem so pious and 
feaint-like as my mother, who is a Presbyterian. And 1 perceive 
that it is since I have declined in religion that I feel myself so 
drawn that way. When I have been carrying on, as Madeleine 
says, with Polly and Miss Jane by the kitchen fire, or stealing a 
kiss from the latter on the stairs, as she is creeping up to bed on 
Saturday night, all dewy with the recent ablutions, (sweet child 
that she is !) though I know — at least I believe — there w'ould be 
nothing wrong in the last, if we had not -been talking so, why, 
the next morning, somehow, I feel as if I wanted to go to the 
Episcopal church. The Presbyterian Church is for saints, but the 
Episcopal is for sinners. 

“ Dec. 31. It is the New Year to-morrow, and I mean to turn 
over a new leaf. I am nearly fourteen years old, and a companion 

for young men grown. G , R , W , and K , are 

all past twenty, yet our standing in the school is the sam^; we 
are fitting for the same class in college ; we associate on equal 
terms. I beat them all in composition, and yield to none of them 

in debate. F is a full-grown man, yet I believe I have 

more influence over him than any body in the world. Why, then, 
lor very shame, do I not control myself, and refrain from doing 
what I know I shall repent of when it is done ? It must be that 
I am not a real Christian : I have never been truly converted. If 
there is a revival here this winter, I shall give up my hope, as 
Jane tells me she has already given up hers, and try for another. 
Polly, who is a Methodist, says she has no doubt I ‘ had religion,’ 
but I have ‘ fallen from grace.’ Her advice is to enjoy myself now, 
not to lose time, but to attend the next camp-meeting, and go into 
the ‘anxious circle ;’ — perhaps I shall get religion again !” 

Here occurs a long hiatus in the diary, which we must sup- 
ply. The revival which Alban looked for to set him right came 
that very winter. First, the Methodists held a carnp-meeting in 
the wild woods near Babylon. The Presbyterian-Congregation- 


ALBAN, 


65 


alists, (for they had a compromise of the two systems at Babylon,) 
despised this movement as fanatical. Alban visited the camp 
with one of his mature school-friends, and they both agreed to call 
it a kind of spiritual orgie. But the ground-swell of the commo- 
tion soon communicated itself to the haughty Presbyterians. It 
was ascertained that there was a seriousness. Prayer-meetings 
were held every morning before light, fc/ the awakening of the 
Church. A renowned revivalist was sent for, and his corning was 
the signal for deep excitement. Anxious meetings were held, to 
elicit and concentrate the interest of the unconverted. The pri- 
mary symptom of a great work was, that nearly a hundred pro- 
fessing Christians in this large church gave up their hopes, which, 
besides its other effects, removed the scandal hitherto occasioned 
by their inconsistent lives ; for it now appeared they were not 
real Christians at all. Alban and his cousin Jane, though not 
church members, were in the number of those who thus renounced 
their claim to the possession of a new heart. Both were said to 
be under the deepest conviction, but it was very brief, for they 
were among the earliest of the new conversions, and both found 
peace on the same day, — a bright Sabbath of February, the sun 
glittering on fields of stainless snow, and on trees hanging with 
icicles. Alban was converted in the morning, and Jane in the 
evening. 

The cousins threw themselves into each other’s arms in trans- 
port, when they first met, after Jane’s happy change was an- 
nounced. Certainly they were both happy, for they believed 
themselves emancipated from the corruption of human nature. 
Alban, particularly, to whom it was entirely new, although 
hitherto remarkable for his cool propriety, was thrown quite off 
his balance, and for nearly a week acted like a fool. It was only 
expected, however ; young converts are always somewhat extrav- 
agant, and are wisely allowed a spiritual honeymoon. 

As the work progressed, the operations of business were sus- 
pended, from the intensity of the excitement. The school was 
closed, and the school-house, slightly darkened at midday, was oc- 

6 * 


66 


ALBAN. 


cupied, early in the morning, at noon, and in the evening, by 
meetings of the scholars for prayer, with reference to the revival. 
The girls were on one side, as in school hours, and the boys or 
young men (for nearly half the scholars of both sexes were grown- • 
up young men or women) — the young men on the other. They 
led in prayer alternately. Jane’s sweet voice learned to raise it- 
self, tremnlous with excitement, so as to be heard by the whole 
breathless and kneeling school. Different individuals, sometimes 
at their own request, were prayed for by name. The preaching 
was chiefly on Sunday, when there were three sermons ; but the 
interest was prevented from flagging during the week, by an im- 
passioned discourse in the evening, on two of the intermediate 
days. The zeal of Alban directed itself to the conversion of Polly, 
from the first moment of his own, and after a fierce, prolonged 
struggle, it was accomplished. Hers was one of the very bright- 
est and most evident transformations that were effected in the 
revival. But though “ brought in” under Presbyterian influence, 
Polly joined the Methodists. 


6 ' 


ALBAN. 


67 


CHAPTER IV. 

It is the school-house ; — a pretty, white Grecian building, stand- 
ing in a yard among young acacias. It is the school-house 
in the long summer vacation. Alban is its sole occupant. It 
consists of a single room, lighted on the four sides. There are two 
long ranges of clean white desks, and two short ones. There is a 
middle space, with a stove, a table for some older students, 
and a high desk for the master in one corner. In the opposite 
corner is the small vestibule. The windows look out on cottage 
villas ; on some dark, unpainted houses, standing in vegetable 
gardens, embowered in hops, beans, and alders ; and on the green 
school-house yard. This last is divided into two portions by a high 
board fence, one portion for the boys, one for the girls. But Alban 
is now sole lord of the whole. He can take one of the girls’ 
desks, if he likes ; he can lie on the shady grass, on the sacred, 
tabooed, screened-off girls side of the play-ground, or he can walk to 
and fro the whole length of the school-room in revery, such as fif- 
teen is prone to, arid Alban above all youths of his age. Alban is 
luxurious in his free range. His jEschylus, lexicon, and Greek 
grammar are on one desk ; a trigonometry lies on the much- 
whittlecT table, under the blackboard chalked with diagrams ; and 
his writing materials are disposed in a third quarter. The school- 
house is the private property of one of Alban’s uncles, by whom 
the master is also in a good degree supported. Alban has finished 
his day’s work, and writes. Let us look over his shoulder. ’Tis 
his journal. We shall not confine ourselves to this day’s record. 

“ Aug. 5. In two months I am to enter college. I have been 
at Babylon more than two years, enjoying singular privileges 
How have I spent them ? I fear I have not improved them as I 
ought — not even the last eighteen months, since I obtained, as 1 
hope, tlie great gift. The waste ol' precious time which I cannot 


68 


ALBAN . 


recall, now gives me the liveliest sorrow. The brief, monotonous 
entries in my journal show how I lived : — in the spring, fishing ; 
in the summer, riding, bathing, and playing ball with the uncon- 
verted ; in the autumn, out shooting, (a daily record almost ;) in 
the winter, skating, snowballing, and sleighing. I considered that 
these things were necessary for my health, but my motive, I fear, 
was amusement. Last winter I read hard, to be sure, but I fear 
it was more from ambition than a sense of duty. This summer I 
appear to have lounged away. Relying on being already two 
years in advance of the class I am to enter, I have neglected my 
studies to pass the hours in light reading or unceasing re very. 

“ It is since Jane left us in the spring for Mrs. W.’s great .school, 
that I have been so dreamy. I am irresistibly impelled to be ever 
constructing in imagination my own future destiny linked, as I 
hope, with hers. I fancy the four years of my college life, the 
three years of professional study, which I hope to reduce to two. 
Yes, at twenty-two I may very well, with my quickness, be admit- 
ted to the bar. Jane will then be turned of twenty. 

“ Sept. 1. I have worked pretty well during August ; dream- 
ed a trifle too much. This month is the last. I will try to keep 
clear of revery altogether. Instead of imagining the future, I will 
endeavor in the hour of revery to recall the past. 

“ I have had a thousand imaginary love-scenes with Jane, but 
notwithstanding all our cousinly familiarity, and living so long un- 
der the same roof, I never had the courage to hint such a thing to 
her ; once I wrote her an absurd letter, (it was a year ago,) but I 
had the sense to burn it. It makes me blush at this moment to 
remember it. 

“ 2. I have appropriated the desk which used to be Jane’s, 
and which was next to mine. They were two privileged fellows 
who had desks next the girls’ row, with but this narrow passao-e 
between. How often when she was writing her exercise where 
my journal now lies before me, I have watched her long, fair 
ringlets, glossier than silk, now drooping over the paper, and now 
falling back on her neck. And the hussy was so careful never to 


ALBAN. 


69 


look round towards the boys’ school, any more than if it did not 
exist. I cannot remember catching her eye in school-time more 
than once or twice, all the time that we sat daily next each 
other, though sometimes her frock would brush my desk as she 
passed. 

“ Sept. 18. It appears that my father can afford to send me 
to college. This is an immense relief to my mind. I had feared 
that some one of my uncles was to do it. I think I Avould nave 
rather learned a trade or gone behind a counter. Well, Henry 
and I are to pack next week for New Haven. I pretend to be a 
candidate for eternal happiness, yet I am conscious that the coming 
ten years reach to the farthest boundary of my wishes and hopes. 
The first seven I mentally devote to preparation and anticipation ; 
the following three to a quick bloom of success — and to the perfect 
bliss of being married to Jane. Beyond stretches a misty region 
which I have no wish to penetrate so much as in thought.” 

The hour when Alban should quit Babylon for college was 
indeed at hand. His cousin Henry, and George St. Clair, a 
scion of the house on the female side, the cousin of both, were to 
enter the same University at the same time, so that a general 
family sympathy was excited, which extended itself through the 
community, about to lose for a time the very flower of its youth. 
Alban went the rounds of the principal families of the village and 
of its vicinity, to take leave. All hoped that he would spend as 
many as possible of his vacations at Babylon. Those who knew 
about him expressed the hope that he would be the valedictorian 
of his class. The old schoolmaster. even ventured to predict this, 
not only to Alban, but to others. 

“ I have fitted a great many young men for college,” he said 
to his favorite pupil, “ among w'hom were several of your family. 
Most of them have done me credit. Some have graduated with 
honors. But I have never had a valedictorian among my scholars. 
I count upon you, Alban, to procure this great gratification for an 
old man’s pride.” 

Alban promised that he would try. It was his own secret 


70 


ALBAN. 


ambition. He had also to bid farewell to about twenty female 
cousins, ranging from seventeen to thirty, and distributed among 
four or five households. Some of them were plain and shy, some 
were graceful and chatty, some beautiful as the morning. Alban 
kissed them all. It was the custom of the country between so 
near relations. In their calico morning-dresses, without any 
ornament but their neat, beautiful hair, and their white hands, 
they came out into the wide halls of their fathers’ houses to meet 
him, and accompanied him to the trellised front-doors 1io bid him 
renewed farewells. They all sent their love to his father and 
mother. They begged him not to injure his health by study. 
Rose St. Clair was the youngest of all Alban’s Babylonian cousins, 
and she did not live strictly at Babylon, but at St. Clairsborough, 
a beautiful village about ten miles distant. She w^as the youngest 
of his owm generation, for Jane was one degree farther removed. 
Rose w'as seventeen, and by universal acclaim the beauty of the 
county. The boy had gallantly kissed all his other cousins, but 
with Rose he hung back coyly, though he had just saluted her 
sisters. She laughed and blushed, and holding his hand, offered 
her red, beautifully pouting lips. 

“ When I see you again, cousin Rose,” said Alban, “ you wfill 
be married, I dare say.” 

“ Why, you see, cousin Alban,” she replied, “ I can’t w^ait for 
you. By the time you were old enough, I should be an old maid.” 

Aunt Fanny’s parting advice had reference chiefly to the 
religious view's which her nephew had adopted while under her 
roof. 

“ You may hear revivals, and particularly Mr. Finney's 
system, unfavorably spoken of, wdiere you are going, Alban,” she 
said ; “but you have had an opportunity of forming an opinion 
on these subjects for yourself. In regard to the Episcppal Church, 
to which I thought you at one time inclined, I am very glad that 
you did not unite yourself to it. For although I believe there are 
real Christians among Episcopalians, as w'cll as in other denomi- 
nations, yet I think the number is comparatively small ; and, 


ALBAN. 


71 


generally speaking it is not uncharitable to say, that their church 
'system tends to make people satisfied with the mere forms, without 
the life of piety. Episcopalians also, very commonly, if not 
universally, disapprove of revivals, which I must consider a very 
bad sign. As I have mentioned to you, their Church, in my 
opinion, is pointed out in the Revelations by that of Laodicea, 
which was lukewarm, neither cold nor hot, and which Christ 
therefore threatened to spue out of his mouth. That signifies that 
unless they embrace the system of revivals, and the other benevo- 
lent operations of the day, they will be cast off as a Church. I 
am very sure that this is the true meaning,” said aunt Fanny, 
looking over her spectacles with great earnestness. 

“ I have not an idea at present of joining the Episcopal 
Church* aunt,” replied Alban. 

“ I hope you will always continue as zealous, Alban, in all 
the benevolent operations of the day, as you now are,” con- 
tinued aunt Fanny. “ I will say it to you now, that though so 
young, you have done a great deal here, especially for the Tract 
cause. I consider that the miracle of the loaves and fishes, Alban, 
is significant of the multiplication of knowledge through the efforts 
of the Bible and Tract Societies. I believe you are President of 
the Juvenile Foreign and Domestic Missionary Society, and Cor- 
responding Secretary of the Babylon Auxiliary of the American 
Sunday-School Union. You must not lose your interest in these 
things at college, Alban, as so many do.” 

“ Oh, I am sure I shan’t, aunt P'anny.” 

“ Much alarm is felt by ministers and others,” continued his 
aunt, “ at the great increase of Catholics in our country, in 
consequence of immigration. If the ministers understood the 
Scriptures in their spiritual sense, I think they would feel less 
alarm. It is very clear to my mind that the Apostle Peter 
represents spiritually the Roman Catholic Church. As Peter 
denied his Master, so the Church of Rome has become apostate ; 
and as Peter dissembled at Antioch towards the Gentile converts, 
so has the Church of Rome taken away the word of God from 


72 


ALBAN. 


• 

the common people ; and Paul withstanding him to his face, 
signifies the Protestant Church opposing the errors of popery. 
But Peter afterwards repented, and then the Lord gave him the 
charge of the flock, and commanded him to strengthen his 
brethren ; which shows that the Catholic Church is to be reformed, 
after which it will strengthen other Churches, and feed the whole 
world. We have not yet a Catholic church at Babylon, hut the 
number of Germans of that religion increases here so much from 
immigration, that I should’nt be surprised if they had one in a 
year or two, which will distress our people, but will give me a 
great deal of pleasure. We shall then,” concluded Aunt Fanny, 
with a look of peculiar satisfaction, “ have all the seven churches 
in the Revelations in this town.” 

“ Were you ever in a Roman Catholic church, aunt Fanny ?” 
asked Alban. 

“ I never saw the outside of one, that I remember,” said his 
aunt, smoothing her gray hair thoughtfully under her prim, 
snowy cap. 

“ It appears to me, aunt,” said Alban, abruptly and energeti- 
cally, “that the Presbyterian Church neglects too much the 
moral education of young people, both before and after they are 
converted.” 

Aunt Fanny looked at her nephew in great surprise. 

“ Yes, their moral education, aunt. We need minute super- 
intendence over what we say, and what we think. They cram 
us with the Bible till we are surfeited with knowledge. I tell 
you what, my dear aunt, I would be willing at this moment not 
to know A. from B., to have a right clear conscience.” 

Aunt Fanny stared. 

The servants, or rather the help, felt most keenly the departure 
of Alban and his cousins for college. It was true that in the 
Atherton households these domestic appurtenances had always 
been obliged, by the irresistible, because quiet, haughtiness of the 
family, to forego the privilege which in that region was then 
generally accorded to native American servants, of as.sociating 


ALBAN. 


73 


with their employers both at the table and in the drawing-room ; 
but this did not prevent the children, as we have seen, from 
making the ample and cheerful kitchen their play-room, and the 
young “ ladies” engaged in its respectable occupations, their play- 
mates and confidants. Even to Alban, accustomed from infancy 
to the privileged familiarity of black house-servants, this seemed 
quite as much a matter of course as to his Babylon cousins. But 
Polly and Maggie were well aware that when Mr. Alban and Mr. 
Henry came back from college, young gentlemen grown, the case 
would be entirely altered. They resigned themselves to the loss 
of their friends ; still it was painful. Even the plain and resolute 
little Madeleine, with her blue petticoat, and the yellow figured 
handkerchief crossed over her modest breast, cried as the carriage 
rolled away from the gate. 


7 


BOOK III. 


Cnllfge : t|jB fmi Itnrii. €)^t !Hrtliitrrtal ngprnrs. 


CHAPTER I. 

The city of New Haven is, or was, (for it is many years since we 
saw it,) most characteristically a New England capital,' and not 
unworthy to be the site of New England’s most Puritan, and most 
New Englandish University. For the information of our Old 
English readers, we may observe that it is situate on Long Island 
Sound, (an arm of the sea, which washes the southern boundary of 
Connecticut,) on a bay where the great ranges of the White and 
Green Mountains terminate, a few miles apart, in two bold and 
beautiful bluffs rising like the crests of breaking waves above a 
vast green plain. These are called East and West Rock. New 
Haven lies between them, some two miles from the beach. 

According to its original plan. New Haven is a square, laid 
out in squares, the central one forming an immense green. The 
houses stand cl iefly in gardens ; the streets are lined with noble 
elms, forming a series of arbors, ever crossing. On the upper 
half of the declivitous green are grouped three graceful churches, 
and a state-house copied from the Temple of Theseus ; and this 
collection of public buildings is overlooked on the north by the 
long line of brick colleges embowered among trees. 

Altogether, if it cannot compare ever so distantly with that 
wondrous relic of the middle ages on the banks of the Isis, the 


ALBAN. 


75 


locality of Yale is stately and academic. In early October, — the 
streets all waving overhead and rustlmg under foot, with bright 
colored leaves, — its aspect was almost poetic. Alban and Henry 
were soon installed in pleasant rooms in an old college. The 
professor who had examined them, observed, with a smile, in des- 
ignating their apartment, “ That college was built by your 
grandfather, young gentlemen, and has since served as a model.” 
Alban was pleased to find the names of several Athertons cut on 
the window-seats. The University (which the boys went over) 
bore several other marks of connection with his race, and already 
blended in his fancy with those images of a patriotic and pious 
ancestry, by which from infancy he had been surrounded. He 
observed with pride the name of his maternal grandfather among 
the donors of a fine full-length of Washington, adorning the 
Philosophical Chamber. 

“ I passed the first eight years of my life in his house at Yan- 
mouth,” he said, exultingly, to Henry ; “ I assure you it is a 
famous place, there is nothing like it at Babylon.” 

The young Athertons themselves were regarded with great 
interest by both the faculty and the undergraduates. It was but 
two years before that one of the family had taken his degree with 
the reputation, always coveted in an American college, of the ” best 
writer” in his class. Alban’s own tutor had been this Atherton’s 
generous rival, and the Senior class still cherished the tradition of 
the brilliant themes, and the eloquence in debate which had fas- 
cinated them as Freshmen. Was either of these innocent-looking 
boys, whose simplicity now provoked the smiles of wise Sophomores 
and dignified Juniors, going to prove as “talented” as their cousin ? 
There were not wanting those who already affirmed with positive 
certainty, that the “little” one would even be valedictorian. 
Meanwhile, Alban and Henry were visited in their new rooms by 
the Sophs, and unmercifully quizzed. Their being “ members of 
the Church” was a fact that soon transpired, and became the occa- 
sion of infinite mirth. One Soph pretended to ask a history of their 
experience ; another gravely introduced the poor boys as “ pious 


7b 


ALBAN. 


young men” to some tall, gaunt, nasal beneficiary of the Education 
Society. Alban was privafely advised by one to keep the fact of 
his being a “ professor” a strict secret, as it would subject him to 
cruel persecutions. This information was confirmed by others. 
Smoking-out, ducking, window-smashing, and riding on a rail were 
the least of the inflictions with which (by their account) the hap- 
less church-member was sure to be visited. 

“ Let them try it, by George,” said Alban, with more of the 
impulses of the old man than of Christian submission in his youth- 
ful breast. “ They won’t try it twice, I guess.” 

A more serious disadvantage of his religious position soon 
threatened our hero. Some fellows, who hated religion in the ab- 
stract, and believed that all who professed it were either ninnies 
or hypocrites, said that Alb Atherton would be a blueskin. Some 
other fellows of his own division, jealous of his recitations, took it 
up, and declared that Alb Atherton teas a blueskin. It needs very 
little to blacken an unknown character in the eyes of the multi- 
tude. A few determined slanderers are quite sufficient. With the ~ 
exception of the charity-students, and of a few self-supporting 
scholars of humble origin, but resolute industry, such as are always 
to be found in a New England college, Alban’s class were shortly 
persuaded that he was by nature, if not yet by actual transgression, 
one of that much-hated fraternity, blueskins, trucklers to authority, 
spies on their fellows. Alban soon perceived the light in which 
he was regarded. Some young Southerners with whom he had 
begun to contract an intimacy, suddenly avoided him. A couple 
of Yanmouth boys who had at first proudly claimed his notice, cut 
him. The fellows who sat next him in division did not speak to 
him. One day, as he entered the division-room, there was a half 
hiss. Henry Atherton partly shared his cousin’s unpopularity, and 
although stolidly indifierent as respected himself, he felt indignantly 
for Alban, whom he ardently admired and tenderly loved. 

Some lads droop under such an influence, which it is vain to 
think of resisting. We have known a young man of the most 
amiable character actually die from the depression and misery thus 


ALBAN. 


77 


occasioned. Alban Atherton shrunk into himself, walked haugh- 
tily past his classmates, chased hall by himself on the green. He 
would not even suffer the affectionate Henry to keep him com- 
pany. Fellows who would not speak to him, would speak to 
Henry. 

One day, as he was approaching his college at noon after a 
solitary promenade, half a dozen Sophs approached him from his 
own entry, two of them bearing a long, rough rail. Alban stepped 
aside upon the grass to let them pass. 

“ Now, have him,” cried they all in a breath. 

Two of them seized him by the collar and waist ; a couple 
more caught his legs, and the others placed the rail under him in 
a trice. In the States there can be no more ignominious punish- 
ment inflicted on the object of popular odium. At the South it 
has often been the fate of the itinerant abolitionist or fraudulent 
pedlar. It is painful too, and even dangerous. Elevated to the 
height of the bearers’ shoulders, the unfortunate victim is held 
down to the rail on either side by his feet, and compelled to hold 
on with both hands, to save himself from torture. 

Alban had never fought a regular battle in his life. For the 
last three years, having been a professed Christian, he had not, per- 
haps, doubled his fist. But he was agile of limb, supple as India- 
rubber, and now ireful as a savage. Little did he regard the 
agony of bending himself back till he could reach the face of his 
hindmost bearer. In the twinkling of an eye, before one could see 
how it was done, the rail was flung on the grass, and Alban rolled 
over with the Soph’s cheek between his teeth. He fought “ like 
mad,” with very little science, but terrible execution. He broke 
the nose of one assailant, doubled up another by a furious coup de 
pied, knocked another flat with a huge stone on the temple. The 
fellow whom he had bitten — a tall creole from Arkansas — now 
approached him with a drawn knife, calling out with frightful 
curses, that he would kill him, and a minute more would undoubt- 
edly have ended this history, but at that instant a cheer, or rather 
a yell, broke from a throng of some thirty or forty Fresh, who had 

r 


78 


ALBAN. 


rushed from various quarters to look on ; and with the yell they 
threw themselves forward as one man to the rescue of their young 
classmate. 

“ Fresh ! Fresh ! Fresh !” — 

“Soph! Soph! Soph! Yale! Yale!” were the fierce resound- 
ing cries. It was the most public hour of the day, and the most 
public place in college, and in a few minutes, a couple of hundred 
fiery youths were arrayed against each other. On the one side, 
the creole, with drawn knife, still sv/ore he would kill the cow- 
ardly blueskin, and was hardly restrained by those around him 
from rushing alone into the thickening phalanx of Freshmen, who 
were now headed by their bully. On the other hand, Alban 
stood in the midst of his new friends, with arms folded, slightly 
panting ; his curly head bleeding disregarded, his turn-down col- 
lar and shirt-bosom torn, and covered with blood that was not 
wholly his own. Forgetting entirely their prejudices, the class 
were in transports of rage at these marks of violence ; a fight was 
imminent ; the bully’s singular authority alone restrained them. 
Alban approached this functionary, who was exerting himself to 
keep his class on the defensive. 

“ I don’t want a fight about me, Mr. Hayne. Let me go to 
my room, while you keep the rest here. I am not afraid of Lau- 
rier’s killing me.’’ 

Several loudly opposed this proposition, but the bully said ; 
“ You may try it, Atherton. We shall be in time to save you, if 
necessary.” 

Alban walked quietly off toward his college ; the creole, Lau- 
rier darted instantly after him, but was again caught by his own 
friends. Alban turned at^the noise. There was a general shout 
from the Fresh, bidding him cut for his room. But after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, our young hero walked up to the party from 
whom his enemy was still violently struggling to free himself. 

“ Laurier,” said he, in French, “ what a big fool you are ! 
If you did not struggle, they would let you go of their own 
accord.” 


ALBAN. 


79 


“ You be off, and be to you,” said Laurier’s friends, who 

did not understand a word ; but Laurier himself became quiet. 

“ Let us shake hands for the present,” continued Alban, in 
the same language as before, “ and afterwards we can settle it 
like gentlemen.” 

Laurier replied with a curse of unutterable coarseness, but 
added to the others, turning away as he said it, “ Let him go ; I 
will find a time for him.” 

And now the scene was very characteristic of a college com- 
motion. The Freshman class was the most numerous, and, phys- 
ically, by far the most formidable in the University, having an 
unusually large proportion of full-grown men. The attack on 
Atherton was unanimously voted to be an affront to the whole 
class. It made no difference, it was fiercely said, whether he was 
a blueskin or not, the Sophs had no right to interfere. But the 
public feeling towards him was entirely altered in a moment by 
the spirit he had displayed. His successful resistance of the infa- 
mous insult offered to them all in his person, elicited a triumphant 
sympathy, and the severity of the injuries he had inflicted on the 
enemy inspired a ferocious delight, that exalted him positively 
into a champion. A meeting of the class was called in the 
Rhetorical Chamber after dinner, to consider what was due to 
their own honor. Atherton was greeted on his entrance with 
enthusiastic cheers. He was called out for a speech, and he had 
too much native tact not to speak at once to the point of the 
“ slanderous imputation” which had been cast upon him, “ of 
being a blueskin.” Amid the laughter of the class he drew a 
sarcastic portrait of the blueskin character, but affirmed that 
even the blueskin was more estimable than the slanderer ; for 
the former, he said, might possibly be acting “ under a kind of a 
sneaking sense of duty” — this expression called forth uproarious 
applause, and Alban repeated it with emphasis, amid renewal of 
laughter and cheers — but the slanderer of a classmate, in his 
opinion, must be actuated by unrnixed, diabolical malignity. 
This speech, aided by a black patch on the temple, at once made 


80 


ALBAN. 


Alb Atherton the most popular man in college. They declared 
“ he was a talented fellow,” and “ real spunky,” and that “ he 
had pitched it into the Sophs, first-rate.” 

With tolerable reason to be satisfied, even as matters stood, 
the Freshmen did not propose any measure of serious hostility 
against their foes. Something, however, must be done to express 
the resolution of the class to hold its own. They and their rivals 
sat in chapel in the same aisle, but made their exit at its op- 
posite doors. It had been a common piece of insolence for 
Sophomore classes, to make a rush on the Freshmen after prayers, 
and push them out. An ineffectual attempt of that kind had 
once been made by the present Sophs. But after prayers on the 
day signalized by our hero’s affray, occurred a thing without pre- 
cedent, the Fresh making a successful rush on the Sophs. Young 
Alban was placed, against his will, nearly in the van between 
two of the most athletic of his classmates, and the whole body 
pressing on with irresistible force, he was borne triumphantly out 
of chapel by the Sophomore door. 


/ 


ALBAN. 


81 


CHAPTER II. 

Alban had thus an exciting dehut at Old Yale, but after that, his 
college life flowed on in collegiate tranquillity. It is true that 
there were some violent academical storms in his time, — one 
fierce riot between the students and the townspeople, in conse- 
quence of which some of Alban’s class were expelled, and after- 
wards taken back ; one fierce rebellion, ending in the expulsion 
of half a class ; one mighty revival, gathering half the college 
into the “ College Church and our hero’s light sails bent and 
fluttered, his slender mast creaked, his graceful bark danced like 
those of others in the gale, but it was only sympathy. He took 
all the first prizes in his division ; he was universally admitted to 
be sure of an “ oration” when his class graduated ; and men said 
that Atherton might be valedictorian if he wished. He did not 
wish it. He had started for it at first, but his ambition soon took 
another turn. He acquired, almost without effort, a more fascina- 
ting and very peculiar reputation. If he rose to speak in a de- 
bating society, every body listened ; if he had an address to deliver 
at a college anniversary, the chapel was thronged ; his themes 
were the topic of conversation, his name was the brag of the 
college society of which he was a member. There is no political 
or literary eminence of after life so gratifying. With this academ- 
ical success a personal trait developed itself in Alban Atherton 
which one would not have foreseen. He became shy. He had 
no social Irilliancy. Other men of his standing addicted them- 
selves very much to the society of New Haven, which then boasted 
some celebrated belles ; but even when Alban had got into his 
junior year, and had consequently passed his nineteenth birthday, 
he seemed only to have grown more diffident. If he saw ladies 
fluttering down the elm-shaded street towards him he would turn 
immediately into another. 


82 


ALBAN . 


Neither did he form any permanent college intimacy, although 
he had always many devoted personal admirers. The nearest ap- 
proach to confidential friendship w^hich he enjoyed was with some 
of the hard-handed, coarse-grained, but often true-hearted, earnest 
students, known as “ charities.” As a professor of religion he 
knew them all, and with one or two was on terms of very famil- 
iar intercourse. They loved the highly-nurtured, gifted, and pious 
youth, who sympathized with their indigence and religious zeal. 
To them Alban appeared a “ rich student,” for he knew no em- 
barrassments about his bills, boarded in the upper commons, 
dressed like a gentleman, and with Henry and St. Clair, indulged 
freely in the expensive pleasures of riding, driving, and boating. 

Among the fellows of his own proper standing in the intra- 
collegiate world, Alban had not a permanent intimate. He 
cronied for a time, when a Freshman, and even up to the third 
term of his Sophomore year, with several fellows in succession, 
but hardly one of these friendships lasted more than a term. He 
continued to treat one or two of the individuals as familiar ac- 
quaintance after the violent intimacy had ceased ; but others he 
dropped entirely. No one knew exactly why, unless perhaps in 
some cases the parties themselves. Henry and he were chums, 
and the affection of the two cousins was constant. 

Our hero’s vacations were variously spent : the spring and 
winter mostly with his parents in New York, the long autumnal 
one in travelling with them, or at least with his mother. In the 
May vacation of his junior year he visited Yanmouth and Yantic 
Falls, where his piety, his college-prizes, his modesty, his purity, 
and the great warmth of his affection for his kindred, caused him 
to be received with unparallelled cordiality by his relations, old 
and young. His uncle Hezekiah alone shook his head, for he 
found that Alban had become infected with the heretical theology 
of New Haven. 

“ That is not the faith of your fathers,” he said, with a sternly 
beautiful smile ; “ abandon it, Alban, at once, if you wish to be the 
hope of your family.” 


ALBAN . 


83 


“ Nay,” said the enthusiastic Rachel, beautiful as ever and 
more than ever sought, though vainly, “ there must be something 
in the New Haven theology which fascinates cousin Alban by its 
partial truth. I rather like what you say, cousin Alban, about 
conversion being a rational act. It corresponds with my own 
experience.” 

Alban did not feel that shyness with a cousin some twelve 
years his senior, which made him shun young ladies more nearly 
of his own age, not related to him. He had several topics in 
common w’ith Rachel Atherton, and their mutual love for the 
memory of their aunt Elizabeth was a strong bond of sympathy. 
Rachel made him take her out to drive in the ancestral chaise, 
which had now come into her father’s possession. She wept as 
she spoke of Betsey Atherton. She smiled — her father’s beautiful 
smile softened by her womanhood — when she told him that this 
visit would make her think of him more than she had done for 
years. She promised to pray for him more particularly than for 
others of her young male cousins ; she engaged him to unite in 
the “ concert of prayer” for the unconverted members of their 
family. Alban left Yantic with a more intense feeling than ever 
of proud love for the old Puritan line from which he was doubly 
descended. 


84 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER III. 

It was about six months after this visit to Yantic, (the date is not 
unimportant,) and our hero had arrived at the first or fall term 
of his senior year. The city of elms was leafless, but the Indian 
summer still permitted rides to East Rock. Alban had just re- 
turned from one on a Saturday afternoon, and was crossing the 
green from the livery-stable to the colleges. He overtook a class- 
mate. It was an undersized fellow of delicate features, but with 
a wasted look abgut the eyes and an uncertainty in his gait that 
betrayed premature excess. He had formerly been one of Ather- 
ton’s inseparables, and they were still on good terms although the 
intimacy had ceased. 

“ You walk a little stiff, Atherton. Been riding ?” 

Alban assented. 

“ You are out every Saturday. You don’t visit at all. I 
wonder you don’t get a gig or buggy instead of a horse, and ask 
out some young lady. It would cost you no more.” 

“ It would not be half so good exercise, Shepherd.” 

“ Well, I never saw a fellow like you. Every other man m 
the class that is a man, (except the charities and future theologs,) 
is either dissipated or in love with some New Haven girl. You 
are neither. By George, I sometimes think that you are a girl 
yourself.” 

“ I am a professor of religion, which amounts to the same 
thing.” 

“ That’s true. Nothing but religion can keep a man out of 
it, and religion does not always. There’s not a man in the senior 
class, in fact, except you and Henry, and the charities, that does 
not dissipate. See all those fellows in our division that joined the 
Church last spring during the revival. This winter twodhirds of 
them have been disciplined ; and the other third ought to be. 


ALBAN , 


85 


There is little Edwards, and Bob Winthrop, they are worse than 
ever.” 

“ I have pretty much lost my confidence in religion,” said 
Alban, as if impulsively. “ I ought not to say so though.” 

“ Lost your confidence in religion !” said his companion. “ So 
have I. All the intellectual fellows in the Senior class are infi- 
dels. But really, Al, I did not expect to hear it from you. Why, 
do you know what they say of you ? That you are the only 
sincere professor in college, except some of the charities. You 
are the only man in the class that is pious and popular too.” 

“ I am not so pious as you think,” replied Alban. 

“ Oh yes, you act on principle. Come, I know it, if no one 
else does.” 

“ You know, Shepherd, that I acted as principle would have 
dictated in a particular instance, but after all, my motive may have 
been pride. I am as proud as Lucifer. If I had weaknesses like 
Edwards and Winthrop, I should be very careful to keep them to 
myself.” 

“ No, you would not,” returned Shepherd, acutely. “ Some 
fellqws might ; but you would lose that kind of pride. It is odd 
that you have doubts about religion.” 

“ I have none about morality. Shepherd. It is the New 
Haven theology that has subverted my faith, not a wish to live 
like you fellows.” 

“ Professor preaches it every Sunday morning in the 

chapel, but I can’t say that I know the diflerenc? between the 
New Haven theology and any other. What is it ? I am curious, 
if it has made y u skeptical.” Alban bit his lip. 

“The New Haven theology,” he replied, after a moment’s 
thought, “ is, that we are not sinners till we actually sin.” 

“ Why do we sin at all then ?” demanded Shepherd, waking up. 

“ Because the will always follows the strongest motive,” re- 
plied Alban. “ Consequently, as soon as the will begins to act, 
the motives to sin in this fallen world being stronger and more 

evident than those for obedience, we sin.” 

8 


86 


ALBAN. 


“ Why, that’s what our fellows say. The motives to vice 
being so much stronger than those to virtue, we cannot help 
falling into it. I have heard Bob Winthrop say so fifty times.” 

“ He is a good theologian. But he forgets the other part of 
the theory, which is, that God can heap the virtue scale with 
motives till it weighs down that of vice ; that is to say. He can, 
by His Spirit, so present to the eye of our reason the supreme 
advantages of goodness, that we must choose it : — which pro- 
duces the phenomenon of conversion.” 

“ A very clear explanation,” said Shepherd. “ For my part, 
the Spirit has never presented to me the advantages of virtue in 
that irresistible light. On the contrary, vice appears to me so 
sweet, that, as Winthrop says, I couldn’t give it up if I were sure 
of going to hell in consequence.” 

“ To me vice is repulsive,” said Alban. 

“ The theory seems to suit you exactly, then. How has it sha- 
ken your confidence in religion ? That is what I don’t understand.” 

“ For one thing, it is contrary to the Bible. And for another. 
Shepherd, it is possible to be very far from inwardly just and pure, 
without being plunged into the rnire where you and your ^et 
wallow like unclean animals : — forgive me.” 

“Oh, I’ll bear any thing from you. Alb.” 

“ How it is possible,” pursued Alban, “for a man who has 
sisters or fair cousins, so to contaminate his eyes, hands, and lips, 
and make hmiself unfit for the presence of modesty, not to say 
the pure kiss of consanguinity, passes my comprehension.” 

“ Well, I wish I was as good as you. Alb. I wouldn’t trouble 
my head much about theology.” 

The young men parted at North College to seek their respect- 
ive entries. Alban paused at the door of his, and gave a look at 
the chapel porch. The bell for evening prayers was just begin- 
ning to ring. 

“ Certainly,” said he, running up stairs two or three steps 
at a time, — “ certainly I will go to the Episcopal church to-mor- 
row morning ; come what will of it.” 


ALBAN. 


87 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was usual, in reference to the monitor’s reports, to call off the 
delinquents after lecture, and hear their excuses. Monday morn- 
ing the Professor performed this duty as usual. A. Atherton 
should have been the first called out, but the Professor began at 
B. Alban thought he was passed over. At the close, however, 
the Professor observed — “ I wish to speak to A. Atherton.” Al- 
ban waited. The Professor merely said — “ Come to my room 
after tea. I want to see you.” 

The Professor was a young man who had been tutor of Alban’s 
division till the class completed its junior year, and had then been 
elevated to his present position. He was already noted as an able 
man, and has since attained celebrity. Alban was his favorite. 
In fact, as tutor, Mr. B. had indulged him too much, so that men 
said, Atherton might do what he liked, no notice would be taken 
of it. 

The Professor shook hands with his young friend and pushed 
him a chair by the blazing Franklin. 

“ You are looking very well this term, Atherton ; better, I 
think, than any other man in the class.” 

“ Horseback exercise agrees with me much better than the 
gymnasium, sir.” 

“ The gymnasium is not a bad thing either. I remember 
when I was a Senior and could practise there, my muscles were 
like bundles of ropes. I felt like knocking down every man I 
met, and jumping over every fence I passed.” 

Professor B. laughed with a quiet, intense enjoyment peculiar 
to him. 

“ Your other habits agree with you too, eh ?” he continued. 
“ I like to see such clear eyes as yours in a Senior. It is a good 
sign.” 


88 


ALBAN . 


Alban had been rather ugly for a couple of years, but he 
was now got to be a very handsome fellow again. His features 
were well-cut, spirited, and of a poetical cast. His blue eye, open, 
and as the Professor said, very clear. The brow was fit to en- 
chant Spurzheim, and the nmsses of chestnut-hair carelessly 
thrown off from it, slightly tended to a glossy curl. The keen eye 
of the Professor scanned this fine countenance of downy nineteen 
by the shaded light of his study lamp. 

“ You were absent from chapel yesterday morning, Atherton. 
I did not waait to call you up before all those ’dissipated and irre- 
ligious classmates of yours ; not that I doubted you had a good 
excuse, but because it was better,” said the Professor, slightly 
laughing again, “ that they should not know you needed one.” 

“ I went to the Episcopal church yesterday morning,” said 
Alban, quietly. 

“ XJmph ! You had forgotten, I suppose, that it was Sacra- 
ment Sunday.” 

“ Does that make any difference, sir,” said Alban, with a 
demure, but penetrating glance at the professor. 

“ Why — why — the violation of the college rule in being absent 
from chapel without permission, of course is the same.” 

“ I thought so,” observed Alban. “ I have been often absent 
before, but never was questioned about it, although, I suppose, the 
monitor did not fail to report me.” 

“ Yes, but you were never absent on a Sacrament Sunday 
before.” 

“ No, sir ; but you have just said (pardon me) that that does 
not make the breach of college rules any worse.” 

The Professor was a little embarrassed, and perhaps somewhat 
displeased. There was a profound silence of some minutes. 

“ You have many privileges, Atherton, which are accorded to 
you because it is known you will not abuse them. You have 
been tacitly allowed to attend church in town without asking 
permission on every particular occasion ; I wish you to continue 
to do so ; but perhaps you have not considered that your absence 


ALBAN. 


89 


on a Sacrament Sunday may have a bad effect. Your influence 
is very great, Atherton.” 

“ I staid away purposely, sir. I, have felt a great reluctance 
for some time to come to communion.” 

“ You surprise me. But why ?” 

Atherton did not reply. The professor waited for him a 
while, and continued : 

“ It is hardly possible that you can be affected with those 
morbid, doubts of youi*- conversion to which some are fUbject. 
Your mind is too healthy.” 

“ Oh, I adopt the New Haven system, sir, so far as that. I 
think conversion js an act of the will. If I thought I had never 
yet submitted to God, I would submit now. My mind was made 
up long ago that if there really werff such a thing as being a 
Christian I would be one.” 

“ So I supposed,” said the Professor, cheerfully. “ We have 
talked these things over before, Alban, and always seemed to 
agree.” ; 

“ My doubts,” said Alban, clearing his voice a little, but 
speaking huskily after all, — “ my doubts — respect the truth of the 
Christian religion itself.” 

“ You have been reading Gibbon, perhaps ?” said the Professor, 
in a low tone. 

“ Oh, it is not any books that have made me skeptical,” said 
Alban, speaking more freely. “ It is my becoming a Taylorite, 
sir, that has led to it. Ever since Dr. Taylor’s sermons in the 
revival last winter,* I have been working the system out by 
myself.” j 

“ You-are a very young man, Atherton. Nineteen last sum- 
mer, I think ! Last winter, is it ? You are very clever, I know, 
but this is'a disease of your agq, not a legitimate conclusion of 
your intellect. You will outgrow it. I have gone through the 
same thing, myself.” 

But I cannot go to the communion while I feel these 

doubts,” said Alban, with a look of distress. 

8 ' 


90 


ALBAN. 


“ Have you mentioned. the matter to any one else ?” inquired 
the Professor. 

“ Yesterday I let something fall to Shepherd, unguardedly. 
My mind is so full of it. It requires considerable self-command 
^ to keep it in.” 

“ I hope you will keep it strictly to yourself. It would injure 
you, Atherton, very much, to have it known that you feel such 
. doubts, which, I repeat, you will outgrow; and it would injure 
the catise of religion in College still more. As for coming to the 
Sacrament,” added the Professor, “ it will be two months, you 
know, before there will be another occasion. By that time, I 
trust, your doubts will be removed, but if not,. stay away. You 
shall not be troubled. Take time, and do not commit yourself.” 

The unburdening of his mind, and the Professor’s kind (though 
certainly also politic) treatment, softened Alban. He shed tears. 

“ And pray, what logical sequence have you discovered,” asked 
his friend, by way of diverting his attention, “ between New En- 

glandism, as B calls it, and a skeptical conclusion ? Give us 

your syllogism.” 

Alban was at first unwilling to bring forward his difficulties ; 
but when the Professor remarked that Christianity ought not to 
be made to stand or fall with the doctrine of any school, he was 
drawn out. 

“ I have always believed Christianity,” he said, “ because I 
had been taught it from a child. And I believed it just as I was 
taught it : the hardest doctrines as well as the simplest. The 
Trinity, election, particular redemption, and the eternal damnation 
of non-elect infants, were, or would have been, just a^ easy for me 
to believe as the inspiration of the Bible or the sanctity of the 
Sabbath. I put no difference between doctrine and doctrine. I 
believed them altogether.” 

“ I dare say. That could not last, of course,” said the 
Professor. 

“ That’s just it, sir. Dr. Taylor and President Edwards over- 
threw my faith in Regeneration. Dr. Taylor uses the word Regen- 


ALBAN. 


9 ] 


' n, but he denies and disproves the thing. The revival last 
.uter was conducted on the principle of the young men needing 
to be converted, not to be regenerated. We all, following the 
Dr.’s lead, urged the unconverted to make an act of submission to 
God. We set before them the motives. That is the line I took 
with F and C .” 

“ I remember your zeal.” 

“ But, sir, when I had succeeded in converting them, I found 
I had lost my faith. I had before supposed myself to have under- 
gone a mysterious change in the substance of my soul, when I 
experienced religion. I had now learned to understand it as a 
change in my will under the influence of motives. I could not hold 
this theory as I used to hold the other. I have been forced, con- 
sequently, to enter into an examination of every other point of my 
religion. Now, I do not feel sure of any thing.” 

“ I must suggest to the President to begin the lectures on the 
evidences,” said the Professor. “ You have never studied the 
evidences, Atherton.” 

“ I am looking forward to that to restore my faith again,” said 
Alban. 


92 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER V. 

Alban was President of the Brothers in Unity. This is the most 
ancient of three literary societies which exist in the bosom of Yale. 
The Presidents, who are chosen every term, and are not re-eligible, 
must be always of the Senior class. The most honorable presidency 
is that of the first or autumnal term, which is, indeed, the most 
brilliant of intra-collegiate distinctions. A profouird secrecy, how- 
ever, is observed in regard to all that passes within the Societies, 
by their respective members. The names of the Presidents and 
other officers, the subjects of debate, the decisions, the writers and 
performers at their exhibitions, and the time of the latter coming 
off, are spoken of only sub rosa. They are all facts which 
transpire, at least in process of time, but even then are not openly 
admitted by members of the Society. This mystery wonderfully 
heightens the interest inspired by these venerable institutions. No 
member of the Faculty can ever be present at a debate ; but the 
exhibitions, one in each term, being principally dramatic entertain- 
ments, are usually graced by the presence, not only of the Professors, 
but, at a second performance, held specially in their favor, of the 
ladies of New Haven. The Societies all possess fine libraries and 
beautiful rooms. 

Alban left his room in North College, as usual, one Wednesday 
evening, after tea in Commons, to attend the regular weekly meet- 
ing of his Society. He was soon joined by classmates sallying forth 
with the same purpose. The night was cold, the stars shining 
keenly 'through the leafiess trees, as they went down Chapel-street. 
The Brothers’ room was in the town, at a considerable distance 
from the colleges. 

“ How clear it is,” said Alban. 

" Yes, I wish it would snow,” replied his companion. “ I 


ALBAN. 


93 


want to have a sleigh-ride with a whole lot of young ladies. You 
used to go last winter, Atherton ?” 

“ Never.” 

‘‘ Oh, you are not a ladies’ man. It is capital fun. We dash 
over to East Haven in no time ; run by moonlight, or the Aurora, 
some dozen miles in about an hour, and then get a supper of oys- 
ters and mulled wine, which makes the dear creatures as lively 
as possible coming back. You are all snug and warm together 
under fifty buffalo robes, you know.” 

“ And you sit by the young lady you are in love with, I sup- 
pose, Winthrop ?” 

“ Provided she is pretty, I don’t much care who it is.” 

“ No ? I should fancy that would make all the difierence in 
the world,” said Alban. 

“ There are so many of us what is called in love with the 
same girl, that some of us must be disappointed,” rejoined a com 
panion at Alban’s other arm. 

“ I have heard that Miss Ellsworth is very much admired,” 
said Alban. 

“ The new belle — Miss De Groot of New York — cuts her out 
en-tirely,” said Winthrop “ Half the Senior class are desperately 
in love with Miss De Groot. Perhaps you know her, Alb, as you 
are from New York.” 

“ Not I,” said Alban, half contemptuously. 

“ Don’t say any thing to Atherton about Miss De Groot, I 
beg,” said his other companion. 

“ You must go to the fair next week,” persisted Winthrop. 
“ It is for the new church, you know. Miss De Groot and Miss 
Ellsworth will both have tables, and you can inspect and com- 
pare them at your leisure.” 

“ No, don’t you go, Atherton ; they will only take all your 
spare cash for mere nonsense.” 

“ I certainly can’t afford to go to fairs where beautiful young 
ladies take tables,” said Alban, innocently laughing as they 
mounted the stairs of the Society’s rooms. 


94 


ALBAN, 


“ St. Clair, they say, is smitten in the worst way with Miss 
De Groot,” said Winthrop. 

“ What, George ! Well, perhaps, I will go in that case — to 
take care of my cousin’s pocket.” 

The room of the Brothers’ Society was a long and lofty 
chamber with a coved ceiling. About the middle of the room, 
opposite the doors of entrance, was the raised tribune for the 
President’s chair, rich with cushions, curtains, and canopy of crim- 
son damask. Below and in front of it was a long table. The 
settees for the members were ranged in rows on either side, 
leaving the carpeted space in front of the tribune free. The 
apartment was well lighted by gilt lamp-chandeliers, the windows 
at the extremities hung with crimson, the walls adorned with 
handsomely framed engravings. Perhaps fifty young men were 
already assembled when Alban and his companions entered. 
They talked freely, but not loud, till some one moved that the 
'President take the chair. 

There was considerable miscellaneous bveiness, during the 
transaction of which the room gradually filled. The first 
literary order of the evening was then announced to be a criti- 
cism by Mr. E. 0. Dwight, of the Senior class. A tall, awkward, 
black-haired youth, with a very sardonic expression and an open 
shirt-collar, advanced to the green table in front of the President’s 
desk, seated himself at it, took out a manuscript tied with pink 
rbbons, and announced that his subject was “ Don Juan, a Poem 
by Lord Byron.” 

Very great attention was paid to the reading of this criticism. 
The critic made an able analysis of the poem, extolled the flexi- 
bility of the style, the wondrous facility of versification, the force 
of the descriptions, the rapid movement and natural conduct of 
the story, its irresistible humor, its pathos, the beauty of the ideas 
it suggested. Above all, he became enthusiastic in giving a vivid 
prose transcript of the character and story of Haidee, — the imper- 
sonation of love under its double aspect of ardor and disinterest- 
edness. Removing entirely from our thoughts, he said, all pro- 


ALBAN, 


95 


fane associations and every base desire, it was so that in idea 
every one must wish to love and be loved. Then he passed to 
the consideration of the imputed immorality of the poem ; he 
admitted that it contained some freedoms, but he maintained that 
it was the freedom of vitality ; that the story, as it stood, was but 
a transcript, fresh and original, yet of a more than mirror-like 
fidelity, from life itself. He compared the reviewers who thus 
declaimed at the morality of this exquisite and unrivalled poem 
to those coarse critics of art, who, standing before the Venus of the 
Tribune, forgot all the matchless charm of those outlines which 
the divine Artist Himself had primarily evoked out of all beauti- 
ful possibilities into actual existence, to gloat over and point at 
the circumstance of the statue’s nudity. The critic was often 
interrupted, especially at the last, by lively marks of approbation, 
and closed amid general applause. 

This choice of subject, its treatment, and the reception it met 
with, were highly indicative, no doubt, of the prevalent sentiment 
in the most orthodox of New England Colleges ; yet it would be 
wrong to suppose that all the audience shared in the sentiments 
of the majority. A good many grave, and for the most part, 
rustic-looking, yet not unscholarly young men, some of them pale 
and spectacled, looked or whispered disapprobation. The features 
of the young President were illumined with a smile, half of sym- 
pathy and half of dis.sent. He bent down and said something in 
the ear of the secretary, while the renewed plaudits of the Society 
accompanied the critic to his place, and then announced with 
calmness the business of the evening — the “ Catholic debale.” 

“ The question before the Society for debate this evening, is 
the following : ‘ Does the probable increase of the Roman Catho- 
lic religion in the United States, by conversion and immigration, 
threaten the liberties of America ?’ The secretaries will read 
the names of the gentlemen appointed to debate.” 

There were eight names, two from each class, of whom four 
had been appointed to sustain the affirmative, and four the nega- 
tive of the question. They were called up in order, beginning 


9G 


ALBAN. 


with the two Freshmen, neither of whom, though present, an- 
swered to their names. It was not expected of these new 
members to flesh their maiden swords so soon. Both the Sophs 
appeared, and argued with their usual self-sufficiency. The 
negator of the proposition took the line of denying that such an 
increase of Popery was probable, and consequently that it could 
endanger American liberty. The Society listened with evident 
languor. 

The Juniors followed. The affirmative here was a debater 
of rare powers. It was a sallow man of about eight and twenty, 
with a slender body and a massive head already inclining to bald- 
ness. This young man’s eye was black and piercing, his voice 
deep and sonorous. He drew a fearful picture of Popery as the 
ally of European despotism, and then proceeded with masterly 
array of causal analysis to show that this feature of Romanism 
sprang from the essential principles of the Catholic Church in 
regard to faith and opinion. It was necessary, he observed, to 
seize the radical difference between Protestantism and Catholi- 
cism, in order to comprehend the difference of their results. 
Protestant faith was the result of rational examination ; Catholic 
faith was the submission of reason itself to infallible authority. 
There was no doctrine of religion so sacred but the consistent 
Protestant dared to subject it to the test of rational inquiry ; there 
Avas no dogma of the Church so absurd in the eye of reason or 
so contradictory to experience, but the consistent Catholic must 
receive it with unquestioning submission. It was from the dia- 
metrical opposition of the interior states thus produced — the men- 
tal independence of the one, and the subjection of the moral and 
rational powers themselves in the other, to an external law — that 
their opposite political spirit necessarily derived. The Protestant 
would submit to no law which did not virtually emanate from his 
own free choice : the Catholic, on the contrary, would be as ready 
to submit to God governing him by another’s will, as to God 
teaching liim by another’s intelligence. “ Our institutions,” con- 
cluded the speaker, “ are but the political blossoms of our religion ; 


ALBAN. 


97 


when we cease to be Protestants we shall cease to he internally 
republicans ; and no institution can long survive after the spirit 
which it represented has passed away.” 

The other J unior rose impetuously on the opposite side of the 
President’s chair, without waiting to be called. His appearance 
presented a contrast to his opponent in every respect. He was of 
Herculean frame, with a sanguine complexion, light blue eyes, 
and auburn hair. His features were handsome but peculiar, and, 
in that company, unique. The moment that he said “ Mr. Presi- 
dent,” with great distinctness, you perceived that his Celtic physi- 
ognomy did not belie him. 

“ Mr. President,” he said, “ I myself have the honor to be a 
Catholic, and I feel therefore the greater pleasure in refuting en- 
tirely the observations of the gentleman who has preceded me, 
whose premises, sir, are all correct, but they prove the very re- 
verse of his conclusion.” Here there was a general laugh, in 
which the Irishman good-naturedly joined. 

This imported American was, in short, at the same time a 
Catholic (the only one in the society) and an ardent republican. 
There was not a great deal of argument in what he said, but a 
great deal of fervent assertion, which, with many, had all the 
effect. If he did not prove his view, he at least illustrated it 
with infinite humor and eloquence, and sat down amid lively 
applause. These were the interesting speakers of the night, for 
the two Seniors were heavy. Each of the regular debaters was 
allowed a reply, which did not occupy much time, and then the 
question was thrown open to the Society. Half a dozen spoke on 
it. Two or three of the speeches were highly interesting. The 
points made on the affirmative side were, the restriction of men- 
tal liberty by the Catholic Church — the anti-democratic constitu- 
tion of the Hierarchy — the claim of dominion over the conscience 
— the known opposition of the Church to the difiusion of knowl- 
edge — the actual ignorance and superstition of the mass of Catho- 
lics — and the general tendency of the human mind to a blind 
faith and passive obedience, of which the Church would not fail to 

9 


98 


ALBAN. 


take advantage, and which would prevent her policy from being 
essentially modified in the new world. On the negative, it was 
contended that Catholicism had more to fear from the general 
Protestantism of the American people than they from it — that it 
could not stand before our universal intelligence and education — 
that the children of Catholic emigrants did not grow up in the 
ignorance of their fathers — that, in fine, vast numbers of the emi- 
grants themselves w^ere already hot republicans, and that even in 
Europe the downfall of Popery and monarchy both was surely 
at hand. Except on the part of our Irish friend, of whom it was 
almost assumed that he could not really believe his ostensible 
religion, there was not an intimation — not a suspicion was ever 
so distantly expressed by the speakers on either side — that the 
religion whose political tendency they were discussing could be 
otherwise than false. That point was taken for granted by all. 

The Society now became hushed and still, to hear the Presi- 
dent’s decision. Alban had occasionally made a note during the 
debate, and he began by summing up the arguments on both 
sides with great fairness and precision. Each debater felt that 
more justice was done him than he had done himself Without 
any thing original in this part of the decision, it was at the same 
time so flowing in utterance and so accurate in style as to enchain 
the attention. You might hear a pin drop. 

But next was to come the President’s own view, and it was 
thought that Atherton’s were sometimes almost inspired. The 
question before them, he said, looking round on the Society, in- 
volved two problems, each of which had exhausted the resources 
of genius in its attempted solution, and which transcended all 
others in interest, viz. : the true origin of religion and the true 
origin of government. It was necessary, he thought, to ascend 
higher than had been done in the debate, and ask M^hence politi- 
cal liberty was derived ; — was it an acquired or a natural right ? 
Were we entitled to our inestimable franchises, as men, or had we 
inherited them as glorious and distinguishing privileges from our 
special ancestors, as the fruit and the reward of their virtue, over 


ALBAN. 


99 


and above other nations and other men ? Had the Negro or the 
Hindoo, strictly speaking, the same right to freedom as ourselves ? 
For his part, he was not willing to concede that freedom, political 
or personal, was a natural right of the human being since the 
Fall, and it appeared to him that the theories which claimed it, 
were over-boastful, infidel, and practically ignored the corrupt 
and forfeit state of human nature. (Here there were murmurs of 
dissent, mixed with applause.) “ As an American freeman,” said 
the young President, firmly, “ I do not stand on the natural rights 
of man — I disdain such a source of my franchises — but on the 
hereditary privileges of the race from which I have the honor 
and happiness to be descended. We Englishmen of the New 
World are not freedmen, but free born ! — ge7ierosi, not libertini I 
The question before us this evening, gentlemen, is, whether the 
increase of the Roman Catholic religion in America threatens the 
subversion of those hereditary privileges of ours, — of what I may 
call that ancient freedom, which is the haughty heir-loom of the 
great Anglo-Saxon race.” Lively and general applause followed 
this adroit popular turn. 

Alban then proceeded to treat as trivial and evasive the 
ground assumed by the negative of the question, that Romanism, 
namely, was not likely to spread in America. The probability of 
this increase of Popery was taken for granted, at least as an hy- 
pothesis, by the terms of the question, and the effects of such an 
increase on our liberties were the only fair domain of the debate. 
He might add that it was the only interesting one for them to 
discuss, and he marvelled that only one individual had been found 
to defend the paradox, that the Roman Catholic religion was the 
natural ally of the people against power, and the bulwark of 
civil and religious liberty. He thought that more might have 
been said in defence of this position. It was sustained by some 
striking facts in the History of Europe, and it was in accordance 
with that theory of political freedom which he had vindicated as 
the most sound. A society which rested on prescription was the 
natural advocate of all acquired privileges, but it would by instinct. 


100 


ALBAN. 


defend chiefly the rights which belonged to the bulk of its members, 
and in the Roman Catholic Church that was the people. Thus it 
was that the Church had exerted itself with such irresistible force 
to abolish servitude. As for liberty of religious opinion, he 
thought it might be justly contended on the side of the Roman 
Catholics, that no one could ever acquire the right to believe a 
false doctrine, or disbelieve a revealed truth, consequently it never 
could be a violation of any right to punish the obstinate advo- 
cates of religious error. 

“ In truth, gentlemen,” continued Alban, “ it has struck me 
painfully to hear it said this evening, that the Roman Catholic 
religion alone demands of its votary a submission of the reason to 
the authority of faith. What, then, shall we say of the doctrine 
of the Trinity, or of that of the Incarnation? We believe them 
because we think we find them in the Bible, and w^e believe the 
Bible to be the Word of God. What difierence in point of principle 
is there between this and believing what the Church teaches, be- 
cause we believe the Church to be the living Prophet of God ? 
I may doubt the infallibility of the Church, and may doubt the 
inspiration of the Scriptures, but to accept either, or both, involves 
precisely the same submission of reason to faith ; and if that sub- 
mission be incompatible with our spiritual freedom, then all reve- 
lation is a miserable imposture.” Here the applause was warm 
but partial. 

“ I conclude, therefore, gentlemen,” said Alban, “ as I began, 
that this question is not capable of being solved, without running 
it up higher, and discussing the truth of the Roman Catholic re- 
ligion itself. A false claim to teach in God’s name, must, if it 
succeed, produce all the pernicious results which have ever at- 
tended religious imposture. The first result will be a false faith ; 
the next will be a great depravity of manners ; the next will be 
a loss of all those institutions from which the life will then have 
departed, of those privileges won by virtue, which vice will have 
rendered hateful. It is thus, gentlemen, that kingdoms as well as 
republics have ever fallen ; and it needs no argument to prove. 


ALBAN. 


101 


that if the Roman Catholic religion be false, which, however, it 
would be very unbecoming in me, in this place, to assume, its tri- 
umph in America would render our liberties nominal, even though 
our government should still be administered, like Rome under the 
Csesars, with all the empty forms of popular sovereignty.” 

The moment the decision was finished, men began to go out, 
and during the brief business that followed, such as choosing new 
questions, appointing debaters, &c., the room thinned so rapidly, 
that at the moment of adjournment scarcely a score of members 
remained. It was after eleven o’clock, and the town was still, the 
shops closed ; the empty streets echoed only to the regular tread, 
and occasional voices of the young men returning to the colleges. 

“ Atherton gave a splendid decision to-night,” said one. 

“ Splendid ! but rather anti-republican, eh ?” 

“ Rather anti-protestant, I thought.” 

“ Baker, and the other religious fellows, looked a little blank at 
some parts of it, I noticed.” 

“ Yes, I saw Baker staring at Atherton through his spectacles, 
with his great mouth wide open.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! Well, suppose we go to E’s, and open our 
mouths for some champagne and oysters.” 

Omnes. “ Agreed.'” 


■ 102 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER VI. 

When money is wanted to pay off the debt of a church, or for 
any other object of piety or benevolence, the unfailing resource, 
at least if it has not been already tried too often, is a Fair. The 
New Haven ladies had had several fairs, but then they could 
very well have one at least once in four years, as they would be 
sure at any rate of its being a novelty to all the under graduates, 
upon whose patronage they naturally a good deal re-ly. The one 
now in contemplation was for the benefit of a new Episcopal 
church ; but those were days of liberality, when the high claim 
of exclusive spiritual jurisdiction had not excited the alarm and 
indignation of Congregationalist New England ; and the Congre- 
galionalist ladies of New Haven worked as hard as those con- 
nected with the Church, to produce articles for the approaching 
sale. 

The important day at length arrived. The ball-room of the 
Tontine was the place, and very tastefully was it arranged. A 
party of students, pressed into the service by irresistible solicita- 
tions, had hung the walls with green festoons. The private con- 
servatories contributed fresh flowers ; and the tables groaned 
under piles of pincushions, pen-wipers, pocket-books, purses, and 
guard-chains. There was a post-office where letters could be re- 
ceived on inquiry, charged with a postage of half-a-dollar apiece ; 
and a fortune-teller, who required you to cross your hand at least 
with a dollar hill. In the evening, the sale-room was brilliantly 
lighted up, and at that hour — the crowd being greatest — the 
tables were tended by some two dozen of the prettiest girls in New 
Haven, “ of all denominations.” These saucy tradeswomen, who 
were in pairs to keep each other in countenance, made it a 
rule never to give change. A perpetual stream was flowing up 
and down the Tontine staircase, and at the door the squeeze 


ALBAN . 


103 


was so great that it was almost a fighting matter to get in or 
out. 

Alban went with George St. Clair ; but when they had 
reached the top of the stairs they were speedily separated. St. 
Clair pushed on, mercilessly crushing some ladies who were try- 
ing to get in, or, to speak more accin*ately, crushing the founda- 
tion muslin of their enormous sleeves, (then the tasteless rage,) 
while Alban held baek, and, indeed, twice ceded his own chance 
of entrance in favor of a gentle struggler, more anxious about her 
silken wings than her slender person. But at last he w^as re- 
warded by being borne softly on in the very midst of a whole 
party. 

Our hero went so little into society that he knew none of the 
damsels behind the tables, and he moved round the room without 
venturing to stop, beeause he felt an awkwardness in buying any 
thing of a young lady to whom he had never been introduced. 
At length, however, he w'as addressed by one who was already 
surrounded by customers. 

“ What,' Mr. Atherton, are you going to pass my stall without 
buying even a guard-ehain ?” 

“ Certainly not,” said Alban, coloring, but making an eflbrt to 
appear at ease, “ unless your price is too extravagant.” 

“ They are of all prices to suit eustomers,” said the young 
lady. “ This is five dollars, and this,” holding up one exactly 
similar, “ is only one. Take your choice.” 

“ I take the cheapest,” said Alban, paying for it. 

“Oh, but surely you will buy something else of me, Mr. Ath- 
erton. See, here is the prettiest watch-pocket ; ’tis but two 
dollars, and worked by me — no, by Miss De Groot. She will add 
your initials and send it you without any additional charge. Of 
course you will take it.” 

“ Why, of what use is it ?” asked Alban. “ I carry my 
watch in my waistcoat. Certainly I can’t need a guard-chain 
and a watch-pocket too.” 

Th» young lady laughed. 


104 


ALBAN. 


“ You aflect ig-norance, Mr. Atherton, to make me explain. I 
am sure you know^what a watch-pocket is for as well as I do.” 

“ Not I, upon my honor, unless it be to carry a watch,” said 
Alban, with a puzzled air. 

“ Really, I must tell Miss De Groot. Mary,” turning to her 
partner, “ here is Mr. Atherton (Miss De Groot, Mr. Atherton) 
pretends not to know the use of a watch-pocket.” 

Several of the gentlemen who were talking to and making 
purchases of Miss De Groot were preparing to explain ; but that 
young lady, who had bowed slightly to Alban as her friend intro- 
duced him, was before them, and said, taking it in her hand, 

. without looking at him — 

“ It is to hang your watch in at night, sir, instead of putting 
it under your pillow, which is a very dangerous practice. If you 
hang it against the wall, you know, the ticking disturbs you. 
In this nicely- wadded pocket it makes no noise though ever so 
close at hand.” 

“ After so clear a statement of its advantages, I must buy the 
watch-pocket,” said Alban, laying down a half-eagle. 

“ We never give change, you know, sir,” said the young lady, 
with a quick glance at him instantly withdrawn, and dropping 
the gold into the money-drawer, “ but you may take any thing else 
here that you like for it.” 

“ The choice is easily made,” said Alban, trying to catch her 
eye and bow. 

“ What is it ?” replied Miss De Groot, looking at the myriad 
articles on the table, but not at Alban. 

“ No matter,” quoth Alban, biting his lips. “ I wish you much 
success.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said she, curtseying, but never raising her 
eyes. She took up a purse to offer a fresh customer, and Alban 
moved on. 

The next stall was the fortune-teller’s, personated by a most 
enchanting damsel, full of mirth, and attired as a gipsy, and there 
was a crowd round it. Alban stopped as if he wanted to see, but 


ALBAN. 


105 


really to look back stealthily at Miss De Groot. Having heard that 
she was a belle, he was surprised at her appearance. 

He had expected a young lady of some nineteen or twenty, but 
Miss De Groot could not be more than sixteen. She was fragile 
and undeveloped. Alban thought he could easily have spanned 
her waist just where the blue cincture confined her loose white 
muslin dress. Her rose-tipped arms and neck of lilies were bare and 
slight in mould. It was the face, then, which caused her to be so 
much admired, and lovely it was beyond dispute — faultless in 
every feature, and of a resplendent beauty of color. Its glance 
was quick and shy, but the mouth, a trifle haughty in repose from 
its exquisite perfection, became sweet as an opening rose-bud the 
moment she smiled or spoke. Its charm was then beyond all 
beauty. The eyes, of whose glances she was so chary, were large 
and dark-gray, set beneath brown-pencilled eyebrows, a shade 
lighter than her beautiful, abundant, very dark hair, which she 
wore brushed off’ her temples in a loose waving mass, half hiding 
her ears, and twisted behind with a careless native grace. 
George St. Clair came up while Alban was gazing at her, and 
laid a hand on his shoulder, saying, 

“ Did you ever see so beautiful a girl in your life ?” 

“ I think Jane is quite as beautiful,” replied Alban, with some 
confusion. 

“ Jane !” cried George. “ Oh, no, you don’t think so. It is 
impossible. I dare say Jane will turn out a finer character. Our 
Babylon cousins, Alban, have an infinite deal of dignity and purity, 
and all that. Between ourselves, Miss Mary De Groot is a bit of 
a coquette.” 

“ They all seem coquettes to me. I am not at ease with 
any of them as I used to be with Jane,” said Alban, with sim- 
plicity. 

“Let' me introduce you to Miss Ellsworth,” said George, 
patronizingly. “She will put you at your ease at once. I want 
you to get over this confounded diffidence, Alban. In a fellow 
with your advantages it is too absurd.” 


106 


ALBAN. 


“ Very well ; introduce me to Miss Ellsworth. Is not her 
name Mary also ?” 

“ Her name is Mary also,” said St. Clair. 

St. Clair led Alban through the throng to the other end of the 
long saloon, where stood a table of refreshments. Miss Ellsworth 
was serving it. She, too, was young, but not quite so youthful 
as Miss De Groot. Her form was developed, her attire rich 
and showy. Low-cut dresses were then the fashion, and Miss 
Ellsworth’s shoulders were so well formed, her neck so full and 
snowy, that she probably could not resist the temptation to comply 
with the mode. She seemed gratified by Alban’s being intro- 
duced to her, and helped him immediately to a cup of coffee. 

“ Do you take cream and sugar, Mr. Atherton ? Please help 
yourself A superb tea-set you think ? It is mamma’s. She 
lent it for the fair, on condition that I would preside at the coffee- 
table and take care of it. By the by, mamma says that you are 
a relation of ours, Mr. Atherton. Grandmamma’s maiden name 
was Atherton, and mamma says that she was first cousin to your 
grandfather. Yes ; that makes us third cousins. Not very near, 
true ; but blood is not water, after all. The Ellsworths are very 
clannish, and so are the Athertons, I believe. The fair is going 
off capitally, as you say. I think we shall make a great deal of 
money. You pay what you please for refreshments.” 

Alban had got on so famously with Miss Ellsworth that he 
was in a mood to be generous. He took another gold piece out of 
his purse. It was only a quarter-eagle, however Miss Ellsworth 
received it in the palm of the whitest and prettiest hand imagin- 
able. He was about to retire after that, but she contrived to 
detain him. She said that he had overpaid extravagantly his 
cup of coffee and bit of sponge cake ; he must at least eat an ice. 
He preferred some more coffee, for Miss Ellsworth poured^ sugared, 
and creamed it with so much grace. With this second cup our 
hero gained additional confidence. He rallied some of his class- 
mates who came up for ices and lemonade, in a very sparkling 
manner. He positively jested with Miss Ellsworth, he laughed. 




ALBAN. 


107 


genuinely laughed, at a remark of hers. In fine, he staid at her 
table three-quarters of an hour, went away and came back again, 
and at length ofiered his services to see Miss Ellsworth home, 
which she accepted on the score of their relationship. So when the 
sale was closed, that is to say, punctually at eleven o’clock, p. m., 
Alban helped Miss Ellsworth get her things in the ladies’ cloak- 
room ; she took his arm in a very confiding manner, and joining 
themselves to a party composed of similar pairs, they took their 
way to her father’s house. It had been snowing at last, and the 
path was covered to the depth of two or three inches. So the girls 
went along laughing, and talking, and holding up their dresses. 
Miss De Groot and a cavalier were just in advance of Miss Ells- 
worth and Alban, but the former young lady refused to take her 
beau’s arm on the plea that she must hold up her dress. She did 
it very decidedly, and made a rather singular figure, for she had a 
white opt ra-mantle (a capuchin) thrown over her head and 
shoulders, a thing seldom seen in those days, and below it were 
visible only a white dimity petticoat, somewhat short and scant, 
and the extremities of her muslin pantalets. But Alban thought 
'that Miss De Groot stepped very gracefully through the light snow, 
and when they arrived at Miss Ellsworth’s gate, she turned and 
said “ Good night, Mary,” in a frank, innocent voice that won his 
sympathy. 

Our hero accompanied Miss Ellsworth through the shrubberied 
court-yard to the very door. It was a large house, the white front 
enriched with a good deal of old-fashioned carving about the win- 
dows and pediment, as you could see by the setting half-moon and 
the reflection of the snow. Miss Ellsworth herself threw open the 
door, which was neither bolted nor locked. 

“ Won’t you walk in, Mr. Atherton ?” 

“ Not to-night, I thank you. Miss Ellsworth. But I shall soon 
give myself the pleasure of calling.” 

“We shall be very happy to see you, Mr. Atherton. Good 
night, since you won’t come in.” 

The young lady enters a quiet house, for the servants are gone 


108 


ALBAN. 


to bed. She locks and bolts the door after her. The hall stove 
diffuses a genial warmth, but she stamps her snowy feet on the 
mat, opens a door, and enters a sitting-room where a wood fire is 
blazing on the iron hearth of a Franklin. The apartment has no 
other light, but rays issue from an inner door that stands ajar. 

“ Mary,” cries a voice, “ is that you ?” 

“ Yes, mother.” 

“ Have you locked the front-door ?” 

“ I have, mother.” 

“ Oh, very well ! Who came home with you ?” in a lower tone. 

“ Mr. Atherton, mamma.” 

“ Oh, very well ! Now do go to bed immediately, for it is al- 
most midnight.” And the bedroom door was shut. 

Miss Ellsworth took off her “ things,” i. e., a large cloak, thick 
hood, and moccasins. TheYi standing in the firelight she looked 
at herself in the mantel glass. It was a serious inspection ; she 
twirled her brown ringlets over her fingers, and then let them fall 
upon the shoulders that beamed so clear and well defined in the 
dark mirror. She was satisfied that so far as that fair, well-formed 
bust was concerned, her young rival could not vie with her. But 
what of the face ? That light coming from below was so trying ! 
Still it could not spoil her regular mouth, fluted nostril, and black, 
sibylline eye. Young Mr. Alban Atherton had certainly been very 
much pleased with her, yet she remembered that his admiring and 
somewhat untutored glance had fallen oftener on her shoulders 
than her face. She would like to form his taste and manners. 
The last were good essentially, save a college gaucherie, arising 
from his having kept away from ladies’ society since he had been 
at New Haven. He was worth forming, for all agreed that he 
was the most “ talented” man in his class. He was very young 
to be sure — not more than twenty. Miss Ellsworth guessed — but 
then to an experienced young lady of twenty-one he was all the 
safer for that. 

An old clock in a corner struck twelve, and Miss Ellsworth, 
roused from her revery, considered that she had better retire. But 


ALBAN , 


109 


as there was no fire in her bedroom she deemed it prudent to say 
her prayers in the parlor. So she knelt down speedily at a large 
rocking-chair, in one corner of which she buried her ringleted face 
for some fifteen minutes, during which period she once fell asleep, 
tlien sprang up again, unfastened her dress, put her hair in 
papers with drowsy rapidity, lit a candle, and, gathering up her 
things, stole up stairs, where she was soon, we presume, dreaming 
of handsome, intellectual, shy students, and of dreadful rivals in 
white capuchins, short skirts, and pretty muslin trowsers. 

10 


no 


ALBAN 


CHAPTER VII. 

The snow on the night of the fair proved the first of a storm, 
which, in a few days, cleared up cold, with splendid sleighing. 
Fortunately, too, it had come with the moon. No foreigner can 
imagine the brilliancy of an American winter- night with a round 
.■noon riding in the zenith, and a surface of crusty snow, two feet 
deep, spreading all round to the horizon. 

St. Clair, Winthrop, Hayne, and Alban Atherton had invited 
Miss Ellsworth, Miss De Groot, and two other young ladies, to take 
a sleigh-ride. The last young lady called for was Miss De Groot, 
and it was about half-past seven when they dashed away from 
the door of the mansion where she was a guest. Three ladies 
sat on the back seat, three gentlemen on the front ; a gentleman 
and lady, who were Hayne and a sister of Winthrop’s, occupied 
the driver’s seat, and the driver was on his legs. There was a 
driver — for it is infinitely too cold an amusement to drive one’s 
self with the thermometer nearly at zero. The ladies were en- 
veloped in furs and covered with buffalo robes, and the whole 
bottom of the sleigh, by St. Clair’s care, had been laid with hot 
bricks wrapped in flannel. There never was so comfortable a 
party, all agreed. The countless bells on the collars and girths 
jingled merrily ; the horses dashed forward in excitement, and 
were scarcely to be restrained from a gallop ; the houses flew by ; 
in an instant they were out in the open country, and soon flying 
along the base of East Rock, the cliffs and woods of which loomed 
up grandly in the effulgent night. 

Very sweetly the three fair faces on the back seat peeped out 
of their close winter bonnets. Miss De Groot, as the youngest and 
slenderest, was in the middle. She seemed to enter into the ex- 
citement of sleighing more than any one She exclaimed with 
astonishment at the wonderful brightness of the moon, counted 


ALBAN. 


Ill 


the few visible stars with the most eager interest, never failed to 
express a new delight whenever they passed a fine hemlock or 
spreading pine, with its evergreen boughs laden with glittering 
snow. Alban’s notion was that this girlish pleasure was affected, 
as a means of fascination. At all events it was wonderfully suc- 
cessful in attaining that end. St. Clair, full of courtesy to his 
vis-a-vis. Miss Ellsworth, could not keep his eyes from wandering 
to her youthful neighbor, with the air of one perfectly enamored ; 
and Winthrop, whose style was more off-hand seemingly, but 
really more guarded, while he cultivated most assiduously the 
good graces of his opposite neighbor — a very handsome girl, whose 
surname was Tracy — gave from time to time a glance at Miss De 
Groot, which Alban wondered how the latter could bear. Our 
hero was so new that things struck him crudely which people 
used to society hardly notice. It was difficult, though, for either 
of Miss De Groot’s admirers to catch her eye ; and her raptures 
about the moonlight she addressed chieffy to her newest acquaint- 
ance, which was Alban himself 

“ See, Mr. Alban,” — so she called him all the evening — 
“ another great snow-tree is coming — or at a glimpse of the 
far-off Sound, with moon-tipped waves flashing against a 
white, ice-bound coast, — “ Is not that very, very beautiful, Mr. 
Alban ?” 

Miss Ellsworth also took every opportunity of addressing our 
hero, not in her friend’s open, undisguised way, but in a tone of 
confidential intelligence that won Alban more. 

“ We count on you, Mr. Atherton, to help us dress our church.” 
— They were talking of the variety of evergreens with which East 
and West Rock abounded. 

“ On what day of the month does Christmas fall this year ?” 
asked Winthrop, who was a pure Congregationalist. 

“ On the twenty-fifth of December, I believe,” replied Miss 
Ellsworth, looking at Alban. 

“ What an ignoramus you are, Winthrop !” cried St. Clair. 
“ Do you imagine that Christmas is a movable feast ?”- 


112 


ALBAN^ 

“ Mr. St. Clair is better instructed,” said Miss Ellsworth. 
“ He has been studying the Prayer-book so diligently of late.” 

“ I admire the Episcopal Liturgy,” said Miss Tracy. “ Don’t 
you, Mr. Winthrop ?” 

“ If there was nothing but the Liturgy,” responded Winthrop ; 
“ but the other parts make the service too long, in my opinion.” 

“ Winthrop means the Litany,” again interposed the accurate 
St. Clair. “ The whole service is the Liturgy, my dear fellow.” 

Miss De Groot, who was listening for the first time to the 
conversation of the rest, smiled, Alban thought contemptuously. 

“ Miss De Groot does not agree with you there, George,” he 
observed, with more than usual promptitude. “ 1 suspect that she 
and Miss Ellsworth think you as ignorant as Winthrop.” 

“ Oh, I know nothing about it,” said Miss De Groot, hastily. 
“ I am not an Episcopalian.” 

“ Mary is hardly a Christian,” remarked Miss Ellsworth, with 
a smile and sad shake of the head. 

Miss De Groot’s dark eye flashed angrily, and she turned her 
beautiful face to her neighbor’s with warm indignation. 

“ I believe in Christ as truly as yourself, I suppose, if that is 
being a Christian, although I cannot believe contradictions about 
Him, and don’t believe that mere outward forms are necessary tc 
salvation.” 

“ Some outward forms are commanded by Christ Himself, you 
know, Mary,” replied Miss Ellsworth, with an irritating calm- 
ness, “ and you must believe what seems a contradiction to your 
short-sighted reason, if it is revealed in God’s word.” 

“ Then why do not you believe in Transubstantiation ?” re- 
torted Miss De Groot, hardly suflering Miss Ellsworth to finish. 
Some quicker blood than Saxon evidently stirred in her veins. 

“ Because it is not taught in the Bible, Mary.” 

“ Just as much taught in the Bible as the divinity of Christ,” 
rejoined Miss De Groot. “ I appeal to Mr. Alban, if it is not.” 

“ If you take the Bible literally. Miss Mary, you may certainly 
say so.” 


ALBAN. 


113 


“ And if you don’t take it literally, Mr. Alban, you may as 
well explain away one passage as another.” 

For the first time she looked him in the face steadily and 
brightly. Her irritation was gone, and she seemed to have for- 
gotten it. She repeated her words earnestly. 

“ We must explain one passage by another, and by the gen- 
eral tenor of the Bible, Mr. Alban, — must not we ? The Apostles 
never speak of worshipping Christ ; never pray to Him after His 
ascension, but only to God. He Himself says, ‘ My Father is 
greater than I.’ ‘ I go to my God and yours.’ What can be 

plainer than that?” 

“ Extremely well put,” said Winthrop, who had not a spark 
of religion, and liked any thing that hit hard at orthodoxy. St. 
Clair looked horrified at Miss De Groot’s talking Unitarianism. 
Alban alone, who had been in the background all the evening as 
respected vivacity and small talk, answered in a gentle but 
slightly patronizing manner, 

“ If the Bible be an inspired book. Miss Mary, we must not 
treat it in that way.” 

“You speak as if you doubted its inspiration, Mr. Alban.” 

“ No, that is not what Mr. Atherton means, Mary.” 

“ Every sect understands the Bible in its own way, and you 
never can make them all understand it alike,” said Winthrop. 

After this theological burst, the party were whirled on in com- 
parative silence ; but Hayne and Miss Winthrop, on the driver’s 
seat, inattentive to what was going on inside, conversed inex- 
haustibly, and with so marvellously slender a store of topics, that 
Alban could never admire their facility enough. At last the 
horses drew up in great style under the piazza of a country tavern. 
All got out, and the mulled wine was ordered. St. Clair made 
the inn people take out all the bricks to heat over, whereat they 
grumbled. The ladies threw off their hoods and outside wrap- 
pings, and appeared in becoming demi-toilettes ; such pretty 
worked collars on their necks ! such tasteful kerchiefs round their 
throats ! such well-chosen silk and challis dresses ! Let Yankee 

10 * 


/ 


114 


ALBAN. 


girls alone for not missing their points on such occasions. Only 
the young New York beauty with the old Dutch name, was some- 
what plain in her garb. When Miss De Groot had removed her 
furs, (the envy of her companions — she said her papa brought 
them home from Russia,) and the pelisse which she wore under 
them, nothing had she to show but a little black silk frock (with 
a touch of the pantalets) and her own graceful shoulders, which 
gleamed as if they had been carved out of elephant’s tooth and 
gold, in contrast with that dark, scant vesture. So they all sat 
round the blazing Franklin, with their tumblers of mulled wine, 
quizzing the rosy maiden who served it, and laughing at every 
thing “ countrified” which their sharp eyes detected in the appur- 
tenances of the inn, or the manners of its inmates There is 
probably not another country in the world where four young la- 
dies of the same social rank would be intrusted thus to the pro- 
tection of as many young gentlemen. The only pledge given to 
propriety was, that two of the party were brother and sister ; for 
these were not “ any sort” of girls, but belonged (always excepting 
the young New Yorker) to distinguished branches of the gentes 
majores of Connecticut. 

Winthrop was the first to observe that Miss De Groot was not 
so taken up with the flowing cheer and mirth within, but that 
she had a longing eye for the freezing splendors without. The 
inn-parlor looked out upon a small, half-frozen lake, with woody 
shores rising into snowy hills. Miss De Groot went to the win- 
dow with her foamy tumbler, and Mr. Winthrop followed her. 
Miss Tracy, who was a funny girl, began to tell a story, (she 
was famous for that,) and all eyes and ears were soon given 
to her. 

Of a sudden there M'^as the sound of a smart blow — it could 
be nothing else ; Miss Tracy stopped with a little shriek, and 
every body turned round with a start. Miss De Groot was coming 
hastily back to the fire, spilling her mulled wine on the carpet ; 
the fire was not half so red as she. Winthrop followed her with 
one hand laid to his cheek 


A L ]} A N . 


115 


“ Upon my word, Miss De Groot,” he said, amid the exclama- 
tions of the rest, “ you understand the use of your hands.” 

The young lady made no reply to him, but looking excessively 
angry, said in an audible whisper, as she seated herself between 
Miss Ellsworth and Alban, “ I hope it will teach him the use of 
his.” 

“ Why, what have you done to Miss De Groot, Winthrop ?” 
cried the gentlemen, St. Clair turning white and red. 

“ Nothing, on my honor,” said Winthrop, affecting to laugh, 
“ but what I have done fifty times before to other young ladies, 
without incurring a similar punishment.” 

“ Why, what did he do ?” inquired the ladies in whispers, of 
the offended fair. 

“ He put his arm round my waist,” replied the latter, very 
straightforwardly, but with a suppressed sob. “ I asked him once 
to remove it ;” with a little resentful shake of the head, peculiar 
to young girls, — “ I did not ask twice.” 

“Winthrop,” said Alban, “you must beg Miss De Groot’s 
pardon on your knees.” 

“ I declare I am very willing,” cried Winthrop. 

The other ladies expressed much indignation at him, particu- 
larly at his saying that he had done the same thing before, fifty 
times, without its being resented. “ Never to me,” said Miss Ells- 
worth, scornfully. “ Nor to me,” said Miss Tracy, coloring. “ I 
presume you mean to me. Bob,” said his sister, with a half laugh. 

Winthrop went down on his knees to Miss De Groot with a 
very good grace, and Hayne, a gigantic Southron, interceded for his 
friend in the most polished tone of chivalric deference. St. Clair, 
an uncut diamond, half waggishly and half sincerely observed that 
for his part, if he had been guilty of the offence, which Heaven for- 
bid, he should have considered the punishment a reward. He 
never before knew the case in which he should have been dis- 
posed literally to obey the precept, when one cheek was smitten to 
turn the other also. He quite envied Winthrop the honor of having 
his ears boxed by Miss De Groot. 


116 


ALBAN. 


“ I view it quite in that light,” said Winthrop, “ though I can 
assure any one who likes to try, that Miss De Groot hits hard.” 

Miss De Groot did not show herself implacable, but she kept 
close to Miss Ellsworth’s side the rest of the time that they staid 
at the inn. It had been proposed to sit differently in returning. 
Hayne would not come inside, hut Miss Ellsworth and Miss 
Winthrop changed places, and Winthrop himself wished to ex- 
change with one of the ladies ; whereupon Miss De Groot insisted 
that it should be with herself, of course that she might not he 
obliged to sit next him ; and because she would not be opposite to 
him either, she quietly took the outside place, to the disappointment 
of St. Clair, who found his cousin Alban between him and the ob- 
ject of his adoration. Miss De Groot seemed to have lost all enjoy- 
ment of the beautiful night ; Miss Tracy and Miss Winthrop rallied 
her on continuing to be so disconcerted by a trifle, and Alban 
caught sight of a tear on her averted face. He desired to soothe 
her, and (his skepticism did not alter what had become a moral 
habit with him) to do her good. 

“ Did I understand you, Miss Mary,” trying to divert her atten- 
tion and confer a benefit at the same time, “ to avow yourself that 
very unpopular character here — a Unitarian ?” 

“ My father is a Unitarian, sir, and I have been brought up to 
think as he does.” 

“ We all believe at first as our parents believe,” said Alban. 

“ In Boston the first families and the most cultivated people are 
Unitarians,” said Miss De Groot. 

“ But you, by your name, are pure New York.” 

“ Papa was educated at Harvard.” 

“ Ah, one naturally takes up the system that prevails in one’s 
university,” said Alban. “ Is your mother not living, may I ven- 
ture to ask ?” 

“ Mamma died when I was little more than two years old,” 
turning a little towards him and looking him in the face less shyly 
than usual. “ I remember her though perfectly. I wear her hair 
and miniature together in a locket.” 


ALBAN. 


117 


“ Do you !” said Alban. “ Have you no brothers or sisters ?” 

“ I had a little brother who died just before mamma. He was 
only a few days old, you know, Mr. Alban. I have his hair too, 
in the same locket with mamma’s, and it is as dark almost as 
mine.” 

“ And was your mother a Unitarian ?” 

“ Ho,” said Miss De Groot, “ she was a Roman Catholic ; and 
that is what I Avill be if ever I change my religion, which I don’t 
think I ever shall, Mr. Alban.” 

“ Oh, really !” said Alban, rather shocked, for it was hard to 
tell which faith he regarded with the greater horror. A Papist 
was a more unpopular character than a Socinian, and here was 
this young Miss De Groot avowing that she was resolved always 
to be either one or the other. Alban began to consider to what 
sect, for her own sake (for his feeling was purely disinterested) he 
would like to convert her. He could not make up his mind 
exactly, though he thought of the Episcopal Church, and he 
pursued, “ You will think me a true Yankee, but I must really ask 
you one more question. Was your mother a native American, Miss 
De Groot ?” 

“ Oh, ask as many questions as you please. There is no im- 
pertinence in your curiosity, Mr. Alban, No, my mother was 
Irish. I am very proud of my Irish blood. You have seen that I 
have something of its quickness.’’ 

“ After all,” thought Alban, “ there is a good deal in you, and 
I don’t believe that you aVe such a coquette as they would make 
out.” 

But Miss Tracy said, laughing, “ What a decided flirtation be- 
tween Mr. Atherton and Maiy De Groot ! Mr. Atherton did not 
give into it at first, but ‘ beauty in distress’ has proved too strong 
for him.” 

For some reason or other the young lady’s native temper did 
not rise at this imputation. She only replied, so mildly that Alban 
wondered at her again, 

“ Since you all say that I am a flirt, there must be some foun- 


118 


ALBAN. 


dation for the charge, but I hope that Mr, Atherton will not believe 
it merely on your authority.” 

“ Oh, he has better evidence, I think, Mary,” said Miss Ells- 
worth, turning round from the driver’s seat ; for she was so near 
her friend that their backs almost touched. 

“ You, too, Mary Ellsworth ! Now that is really unkind !” 
said Miss De Groot, smiling in the moonlight, but speaking with a 
tremulous voice, as if she were hurt. “ I must not ask you, Mr. 
Alban, if you think I have flirted with you this evening, but I do 
assure you that nothing was further from my thoughts. I have 
spoken to you more than to the other gentlemen, because I have 
an aversion to Mr. Winthrop,” (that gentleman bowed,) “ and 
Mr. St. Clair, I am afraid, — has an aversion to me,” she added, 
laughing. “ Haven’t you, Mr. St, Clair ?” 

“ The greatest !” said St. Clair, with a comic contortion. 

“ And Mr. Hayne is outside,” continued Miss De Groot. 

“ I was your only resource,” said Alban. “ It is quite clear. 
I feel extremely flattered.” 

“ So do all the gentlemen, no doubt,” observed Miss Tracy. 

“ Myself especially,” said Winthrop. “ For next to a lady’s 
preference, give me her aversion.” 

“ Let us part friends,” exclaimed St, Clair, in a mock heroic 
tone, “for we are approaching rapidly to the end of our journey. 
For my part, I forgive all the injuries I have received.” 

“ I bear no malice,” said Winthrop. 

“Nor I,” said Miss De Groot, with a smile of fascination, 
principally bestowed, however, on St. Clair and Alban. 

The sentiment of a vanishing pleasure subdued our party to 
silence as the horses renewing their homeward pace, approached 
New Haven. As Miss De Groot had been called for last, so she 
was set down first, the mansion where she was a guest being out 
of the town. They had to drive in at a gate and ascend a gradual 
carriage sweep to get to it. Her friends discussed her character 
when they had lost her presence. Miss Winthrop and Miss Tracy 
were pretty severe. “ Bob was saucy,” said his sister, “ but it 


ALBAN. 


I 19 

was a very unlady-like thing for her to slap him, in my opinion.” 
“ My belief is that it was all done for effect,” said Miss Tracy. 
“ Just to seem extremely dainty.” — “ How hard they are on their 
own sex !” said St. Clair. “ It seems to me that nature gave you 
your hands, ladies, as well as your nails and teeth, to defend your- 
selves from impertinence, if the occasion require, as well as for 
other purposes.” — “ The occasion did not require such a use of her 
hands on the part of Miss De Groot,” rejoined Miss Tracy. St. 
Clair and Hayne maintained the contrary, although with many 
expressions of deference for the sentiment of the ladies. — “ How 
you all talk !” said Miss Ellsworth. “ Mary De Groot used her 
hand to punish Mr. Winthrop’s rudeness just from instinct, with- 
out stopping to think about the pros and cons.” — ‘‘ Exactly,” cried 
St. Clair; “it is just as a cat scratches, or a cow hooks at you 
with her horns. I told you so.” — “ I think that Miss De Groot 
afterwards regretted having boxed Winthrop’s ears,” observed 
Alban. — “ It was only one ear that she boxed,” said Winthrop, 
“ and quite enough, I assure you. I was bending down to whisper 
a compliment, you know, about her eyes being brighter than the 
moon, or some such nonsense ; and I did’nt put my arm round her 
waist, as she said I did, but just touched her with my open hand, 
as one does in taking out a lady to waltz, or in passing her into a 
carriage, — nothing more, on my honor, — and she said as quick as 
a flash, ‘ Please take your hand ofl’ my waist, sir,’ with so much 
haughtiness that, by George, I wouldn’t at first, and then she 
drew back and struck me as if she would have knocked me down. 
I declare I had no idea that a girl of her slender build could strike 
so hard.” 

Winthrop had evidently received a deep impression. The rest 
of the party laughed at his story, in various tones, while the sleigh 
cut along an arcade of leafless elms. One by one the other ladies 
were deposited at their homes, and in a trice after that, the young 
men got out together at North College gate. It was a reasonable 
hour ; — not quite midnight. 


120 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The approach of Christmas excited far less interest in New 
Haven than that of the Brothers’ Society exhibition which was to 
take place soon after the festival. The work of rehearsals was 
going on secretly but zealously at the Society’s room, and many 
were the rumors afloat respecting the interest of the new tragedy 

by , (the name could not transpire,) the murderous fun of the 

farce by , and the splendid additions which the committee on 

the exhibition had made to the Society’s theatrical wardrobe. 
The members of the other societies were intriguing furiously for 
tickets, and all the young ladies who had not yet been privately 
invited, were in a fever of nervous excitement lest they should be 
left out. 

Whether Alban had worked so hard at his tragedy, (for we 
are not bound to keep the secret of the Brothers’ Society,) or at 
the Evidences, for he confounded the Divinity Professor by bring- 
ing every day some fresh and subtle objection to be solved, or 
whether the image of Mary Ellsworth, or that of Mary De Groot, 
(since the sleigh-ride,) visited him in dreams and rendered his 
sleep less refreshing to his body than agreeable to his imagination, 
or whether the fare in Commons, as he averred, was really exe- 
crable that term, it is certain that about the first of December he 
had suddenly beconle aware of having lost his appetite, digestion, 
color, and elasticity. He called on his physician, wisely thinking 
that it was the business of a professor of the healing art to save 
him from all care concerning his clay tenement when it got out 
of order. To employ another’s ministry in our ailments, whether 
of body or soul, enables us to avoid dwelling unhealthily upon 
them ourselves. 

The doctor felt the pulse, looked at the tongue, thumped the 
chest, peered into the eyes, incpiired into the functions. 


ALBAN , 


121 


“ Circulation irregular — mucous membrane slightly disordered. 
You have not been dissipating in any way ? You smile. Well, I 
think not, with that clear, bluish-white conjunctiva and girlish 
blush. Then you have been working that fine brain of yours too 
hard. What have you been doing ?” 

“ Writing a tragedy, doctor.” 

“ Enough. All accounted for — the pain in side included. 
Excites the passions as much as dissipation, and draws more 
fearfully on the nervous energies. You must give it up.” 

“ I have got through my work now, doctor, and am really re- 
cruiting ; I make a call in town every morning.” 

“ That’s well.” 

“ The main difficulty, sir, is the stomach or the liver. I have 
an idea that I need some blue pill.” 

“ Blue nonsense ! You want some old sherry, a char ge of oc- 
cupation and a change of diet. Go board at Mrs. Hart’s. I will 
write you a certificate this minute.” 

Alban lost no time in availing himself of the doctor’s certifi- 
cate. The President, on its being presented, gave him leave at 
once to board in town ; he gave notice to the Steward that very 
morning, and at one o’clock punctually he was entering Mrs. 
Hart’s dining-room. 

The single large table neatly spread with linen damask, was 
as wonderful to him as if he had never seen the like in his life. 
The mere glow of the decanters warmed his stomach. The very 
location of the salt-cellars between crossed silver spoons was appe- 
tizing. The knives and forks regularly laid, the tumblers and 
wine-glasses, the bright plated castors, the napkins in rings of 
silver or ivory, refreshed his vision, accustomed to the nakedness 
and disorder of the Commons’ tables. How cosy, too, appeared the 
old-fashioned japanned plate- warmer by the fire I What a savory 
odor from the not distant kitchen saluted his olfactories ! 

“ I declare,” thought he, “ I did not realize in what a piggish 
way we live in Commons.” 

Eor three years, saving the vacations, our hero had lived in 

11 


122 


ALBAN, 


such a piggish way, a good deal distressed by it in his early days 
of Freshman simplicity, but accustoming himself to it by degrees, 
till he was himself grown considerably careless, a fact which his 
dear “ particular” mother puzzled him by lamenting. The manners 
as well as the arrangements of Commons were very unrefined in 
those days ; the rude haste, the unseemly neglect of forms, made 
the tables even of the higher college classes most unlike the old 
Catholic refectories, which, plain as they were, were schools of de- 
corum as well as of simplicity. Still, it had been better for Alban 
than luxury, or the fastidious ostentation of the moderns. 

Presently came in Mrs. Hart — a tidy dame of forty — whose 
looks commended her own cheer. The boarders dropped in quietly, 
and Mrs. Hart introduced Alban to some of them. The first of 
these was a fresh-looking, well-conditioned, closely shaven young 
man of some six or seven and twenty, carefully dressed in a 
black suit and white cravat, whom our hero at once recognized as 
the assistant minister of the Episcopal church. The other male 
boarders were Southern students, — fellows of whom Alban’s 
principal notion was, that they were planters’ sons, and boarded 
“ in town.” There were also several ladies, — one a stately South- 
ern matron who had a son in the Freshman class, and had come 
on to be near him ; the rest were single, of whom the prettiest and 
youngest was a niece of Mrs. Hart’s, a young lady of extremely 
aflfable manners, and very nicely dressed. Indeed, Alban, who had 
come to dine quite as a matter of business, and in his wonted 
recitation gear, observed that his fellow-boarders and companions 
of both sexes were all clothed literally in purple and fine linen. 
Most of the fellows in the Senior class dressed a good deal, but 
our hero had never given in to it. His shirts were still fashioned 
in the simple domestic form which had reigned in Babylon in his 
boyhood ; his neck was encircled by a jdain black silk handker- 
chief, tied in a careless bow j a blue frock-coat, threadbare at the 
elbows and whitish in the seams, had .seemed to him good enough 
even for a morning call on Miss Ellsworth. Now he perceived 
his mistake. He resolved that he would have a black suit and a 


ALBAN. 


123 


large flowered blue cravat, arid, to say the least, a set of new 
collars. 

But soup was served, and the Rev. Arthur Soapstone said 
grace in a brief, rotund style, which said as plain as manner could, 
“ This act derives its efficacy from my legitimate ordination 
which our hero, however, being used to the “ personal piety” 
manner, did not quite comprehend. His reawakened appetite 
did not allow of his dwelling much on the subject, and very soon 
the appearance of a magnificent roast turkey, accompanied by a 
truly American profusion of nicely cooked vegetables, and counter- 
poised by a superb Virginia ham, dappled with pepper and adorn- 
ed with sprigs of curled parsley, completed the temporary victory 
of gastronomy over all other sciences in our young friend’s esti- 
mation. It was not till the third course (Massachusetts par- 
tridges, &c.) came on, to tempt too far his yet delicate palate, that 
Alban began to open the ears of his understanding to the conver- 
sation. 

In spite of his white-seamed blue coat and primitive shirt- 
collar, not only the pretty Miss Hart, but stately Mrs. Randolph 
Lee, was very gracious to our hero, the fact being, that his plain 
and worn, but scrupulously neat garb harmonized exactly with the 
idea which (unknown to him) all had formed beforehand of the 
“ talented” Atherton. Mr. Soapstone remarked to Alban that he 
had heard of him before, through some young ladies of “ the parish.” 
Miss Ellsworth, Alban presumed with a blush. She was one. 
Mr. Soapstone inquired if he were not a member of the “ College 
Church,” as he believed it was called. Alban assented, adding, 

“ I thought you had been a Yale man, Mr. Soapstone.” 

“ Certainly, sir,” said Mr. Soapstone. “ I belonged to the 
Class of ’26. I remember I had a classmate of your name. Mr. 
Hez-e-ki-ah Atherton, I think.” 

“ There was no ‘ College Church,’ I suppose, in those days,” 
said Alban, in perfect good faith. 

“Oh, there was what they called the ‘ College Church,’ the 
^me as now,” replied Mr. Soapstone. 


124 


ALBAN. 


Alban was puzzled. He was not yet aware that the Congre- 
gationalist Churches (so called) in New England were not real 
churches, but only conventicles. However, we are all ignorant 
till we are taught. We hope our High Church readers will not 
give up Alban yet on the ground of this pitiable lack of ecclesi- 
astical information on his part ; he may live to be as great a 
stickler for Apostolical succession as they can desire. He may 
learn to call the “ New England Churches,” as they were termed 
by his ancestors, “ synagogues of Satan,” and to talk of schism and 
heresy as- confidently as the best of them. Alban, however, per- 
ceived that some insulting sense lay couched in Mr. Soapstone’s 
emphasis, so he tarried not in replying. 

“ You mean to imply that it is improper to speak of a ‘ College 
Church ?’ ” 

“ I mean,” said Mr. Soapstone, “ that a mere association of 
persons who are mutually satisfied of each other’s personal piety, 
and who agree in their religious opinions, cannot constitute a 
Church.” 

“ No,” said Alban, “ of course they must also unite in 
Christian ordinances.” 

“ That will not make them a Church,” replied the clergyman, 
with a bow of triumph, “ unless they have power to administer 
the ordinances.” 

“ Do I understand you, sir,” said Alban, “to assert that the 
College Church has not the power to administer the ordi- 
nances ?” 

“ 1 do assert it without hesitation. Allow me to take a glass 
of wine with you, Mr. Atherton. I hope we shall some day have 
an opportunity of discussing the grounds of my assertion, which, I 
perceive, surprises you.” 

“ It seems to me ridiculous,” said Alban, very good-naturedly, 
filling his glass at the same time. “ I dare say you can prove it, 

though, as convincingly as Professor F does the inspiration 

of the Scriptures ; which 1 could believe more easily for their own 
glorious sake, than I can upon his arguments.” • 


ALBAN . 


125 


In fact, Alban, when he found there was an Episcopal clergy- 
man at his new boarding-house, had immediately thought of the 
opportunity it might afi’ord him to obtain a new solution of his 
doubts, and a better one perhaps, than all the elaborate historical 
deductions of his Divinity teachers could supply. After dinner, he 
drew Mr. Soapstone again to the topic, in which all the Southern- 
ers, although perfectly irreligious young men, joined with great 
interest. - But Mr. Soapstone seemed unable to enter into the 
question of the Christian religion itself. He was too much occu- 
pied with that of the right to administer its Sacraments. At first, 
indeed, he took a ground which seemed novel, by saying that he 
believed the Scriptures to be inspired, on the testimony of the an- 
cient- Church ; but when pressed to say how he knew that the 
ancient Church had not been deceived in that respect, he was 
unable to answer. 

“ The canon of Scripture,” said Alban, “ was fixed, you say, 
by the Church, in the fourth or fifth century. If we take it then 
at her hands, because she could not err, why we ought to take in 
the same way every thing else that the Church teaches, and then 
w'e shall be Roman Catholics at once.” 

“ That’s a fact !” cried the Southerners. 

“If she could err,” continued Alban, as Mr. Soapstone was 
silent, “ then we must not accept her decision blindly. We 
must examine the question for ourselves. And so we get back to 
the historical argument again, which, to me, is wholly uncon- 
vincing ; and it perfectly revolts me,” said he, warmly, “ to be 
told that my salvation depends on my being convinced by it.” 

“ You are an infidel, then,” said the clergyman, waving his 
hand, as if such a being were unworthy of an argument. 

“ No,” said Alban, seriously. “ I am not an infidel, but a 
Christian sadly perplexed. I do not know how much I ought to 
believe. I do not know why I ought to believe it.” 

“ Submit to the Catholic Church, Mr. Atherton, and she will 
tell you what to believe,” said Mr. Soapstone, rising, and speaking 
wdth animation ; “ I mean to that pure branch of it which is es- 

n* 


]26 


ALBAN. 


tablished in the United States.” So saying, Mr. Soapstone retired 
to his room. 

“The man is crazy,” observed one of the Southerners. 

“ On that subject I should think that he was,” said Alban. 

The young men, who at first had regarded our hero suspiciously, 
not overlooking the white-seamed coat like the ladies, seemed 
now to have imbibed a quite new idea of him. They were not 
of his class, and being Calliopeans, of course they knew nothing 
of him as a Society man. They had only understood that he was 
a religious fellow and a Northerner. They now broke out into 
warm expressions of their distaste for religion in any shape, except 
as a necessary part of virtue in girls of good family. 

“ My God !” exclaimed one of thern, with the rude energy of 
his class and country, “would I have my sister an infidel? I 
reckon not. I should like to see the man that would 'presume to 
talk infidel to a sister of mine. I would shoot him as I w'ould a 
dog.” 

Alban was so taken by surprise that he could not help laugh- 
ing at the oddity of their expressions, but he was shocked at their 
sentiments. It seemed to him that both sexes had the same in- 
terest in truth, and the same obligation to purity. This they 
hooted at, not, however, in an unkindly way. Indeed, though 
they could not make out Alban, they took a great fancy to him. 
They had never seen a Northern man they liked so much. Al- 
ban’s strong propensity to do good made him reason with them, on 
their bad principles, and while they maintained that love was 
only lust, and that virtue in young men was a physical impossi- 
bility, they unconsciously envied him as he vindicated the purity 
of female affection, and warmly protested that he would rather 
die than violate the laws of chastity. Atherton would always 
try to cut blocks with a razor. 

It was nearly four o’clock when he left Mrs. Hart’s, and these 
lower class men had to go to recitation. There was no Senior lec- 
ture, and he was strongly moved to call on some of his new female 
friends. Mrs. Hart’s boarding-house was on that side of the town 


ALBAN. 


127 


wliere (btit just out of it) Miss De Groot’s friends lived. He had 
never yet called upon her. It was a duty neglected. He found 
that it would be just a pleasant walk up the leafless avenue half 
choked with snow. The mansion stood on an eminence with 
.lawns around, an extensive wood and hill in the rear. It was of 
gray stucco, with an Ionic portico, from which the view was fine, 
especially by that evening light. Alban was admitted immedi- 
ately, and ushered without much form into a sitting-room that 
looked towards the west, where he found Miss De Groot and an- 
other lady, sitting by a window that came down to the floor ; the 
former was reading aloud and the latter w^as at work. Miss De 
Groot put down the book and rose to greet him. When she had 
introduced him to her hostess, and resumed her seat in the window, 
her lovely face was flushed, and her eyes were bent upon the 
carpet, with that shy look which he had observed at their first 
meeting. It was not one of the houses where young students felt 
themselves at liberty to call without ceremony, and Miss De Groot’s 
shy manner made Alban feel some doubt as to his position, partic- 
ularly as she had never, like Miss Ellsworth, invited him to call 
upon her. There was nothing said either, that tended to relieve 
this awkwardness. Miss Everett — the hostess of his young ac- 
quaintance — a maiden lady of a certain age, sat very quietly on 
her ottoman, working at an embroidery frame by the fine western 
light, with her richly flounced black silk dress spreading around 
her in great state, her gold watch-chain, gold keys, gold pencil, 
dangling at her waist, and seemed to think that she was not 
called upon to say any thing to the student who had called to see 
Miss De Groot. Alban was obliged to open the conversation by 
remarking upon the beauty of the winter weather, the continuance 
of the sleighing, &c., hoping that Miss De Groot did not take cold 
after their sleigh-ride. 

“ A slight one,” replied Miss De Groot, raising her eyes from 
the carpet, “ but I got quite over it a fortnight ago.” 

“ Is it so long since our sleigh-ride ?” said Alban with embar- 
rassment. 


128 


ALBAN. 


“ How long is it since I took that sleigh-ride with Mary Ells- 
worth and the girls, cousin Harriet ? Oh, it must be more than 
a fortnight since.” 

“ ’Twas a fortnight last Tuesday,” said Miss Everett. 

“ I have been so busy preparing for the Exhibition,” said Al- 
ban, “that time has slipped away insensibly.” 

“ Mary Ellsworth told me as a secret that you were writing, 
or, as I understood her, had written, a tragedy. I believe you are 
very well acquainted with Miss Ellsworth, Mr. Atherton ?” 

“ My acquaintance with her dates from the fair at which I 
had also the pleasure of seeing Miss De Groot for the first time,” 
said Alban. 

“ But that’s a month ago,” said Miss De Groot, “ and you have 
seen her almost every day since, have you not ? No ! Well, I 
hardly ever see Mary that she doesn’t speak of your calling the 
day before.” 

“ Have you been invited yet to our Exhibition, Miss De Groot ? 
If not, I shall be very happy to send tickets for Miss Everett and 
yourself” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Atherton, three or four gentlemen have 
already made us the same kind offer.” 

“ But you have declined it from them all, Mary,” observed 
Miss Everett. “ Don’t you mean to go to the Exhibition ?” 

“ I can not only send you tickets but reserve you places,” 
said Alban, “ although, from my duties on the night of the Exhi- 
bition, I can not personally wait upon you, ladies, to the Society’s 
room.” '' 

“ That would suit us exactly,” said Miss De Groot, addressing 
her hostess. “We really do not need a beau on the oceasion, so 
I think that I will accept your offer, Mr. Alban, if Miss Everett 
is willing.” 

“ Of course I shall go on your account, dear,” said Miss Everett. 
“ I really want you to see one of the Exhibitions. We are very 
much obliged to you, Mr. Atherton, I am sure.” 

Alban did not feel particularly flattered at the manner in which 


• ALBAN. 


l29 


his offer had been accepted. Was Miss De Groot vexed that he 
had deferred so long calling upon her ? 

. “ I should have taken the liberty of coming to see you much 

sooner, Miss Mary,” he said, resolved to try this tack, “ if I had not 
been afraid of Miss Everett.” 

“ Miss De Groot’s friends are all very welcome here, I assure 
you, sir,” replied that lady, slightly smiling at this sally of 4;he 
young student. 

Miss De Groot blushed, and said, “ I should have been very 
happy to see you if you had called, Mr. Alban.” 

“ How have you enjoyed your residence at New Haven ?” 
asked Miss Everett, wishing to be civil to him since he had 
promised them tickets. 

“ I never liked any other place half so well.” 

“ You are like Mary. But she has only seen it in winter, I tell 
her. She can form no idea of what it is in summer.” 

“ It would have the same charm for me at all seasons,” said 
Miss De Groot, looking out of the window towards West Rock. 
“ Do you know, Mr. Alban,” turning to him, “ that I do so wish 
I were a young man, so that I could be a student. Every time 
that I see one in my walks, entering one of those old colleges, I 
quite envy him.” 

“ I think I have seen you at the chemical lecture,” said Alban, 
wondering if after all Miss De Groot were not a flirt. 

“ She is crazy to attend them,” said Miss Everett, “ but she 
complains that the students look at her too much when we come 
away.” 

“ Oh, that is not fair !” exclaimed Miss De Groot, crimsoning 
to the temples. “ Really, cousin Harriet ! But I hope Mr. Alban 
will not repeat such a thing.” 

“ Certainly not,” said Alban, “ although I think it is very 
rude in our fellows. For my part, I have always kept back, 
although I had the honor of knowing Miss De Groot, fearing 
that it would be an annoyance to her to be saluted by so many 
young men.” 


• f 


130 


ALBAN. • 


Papa has told me, and so has Mr. Everett, of Italian ladies 
of birth and beauty,” said Miss De Groot, addressing Alban with 
animation, “ who went regularly through the University, attending 
the lectures in scholars’ gowns, and taking all the degrees, yes, 
and lecturing afterwards, themselves, to learned audiences. That 
(except the last) is what I should like.” 

• “ College would be an enchanting place with such classmates,” 
said Alban. 

“ Ah, Mr. Alban, you put down my enthusiasm with a com- 
pliment. I see I must be resigned to being a pretty girl and 
knowing nothing. If it had but pleased Heaven to make me 
plain, it would have suited me better, I assure you. It is so 
humiliating to be made a toy of, when one is thirsting for knowl- 
edge.” 

The young face glowed with indignation and pride, and the 
fine — excessively fine — eyes were raised to Alban’s with a degree 
of spirit and courage which he had neverobserved in them before. 
Indeed, they shot fire. Miss Everett glanced from her to Alban, 
with an expressive shrug. 

“ You ought not to repine. Miss De Groot, at the part assigned 
to your sex by the will of God — ought you ?” said Alban. 

“ It’s not the will of God, Mr. Alban, that we should -be 
regarded in the light I complain of. It is your will, and our 
weakness.” She was still angrily flushed, so that Alban thought 
involuntarily of that cherub ” severe in youthful beauty.” “What 
right,” she exclaimed, “have you thus to confine us to frivolous 
pursuits — to persecute us with thoughts that destroy our self- 
respect ! On every side it meets us, and for my part I should be 
glad to go into a convent or anywhere, to be environed no longer 
by this degrading admiration.” 

“ My dear !” said Miss Everett, reprovingly, for Alban was 
completely silenced, “ you are ungrateful to talk in that manner. 
How many girls would be glad to have half the beauty that pro- 
cures you so much notice. Most, indeed, complain of nothing but 
neglect.” 


ALBAN. 


131 


Miss De Groot sprang up hastily from her seat, book in hand, 
ran to the pier-glass, (there was one that came down to the floor,) 
and ^rveyed herself in it. She was attired in the same plain, 
somewhat scant black silk which she had worn at the sleigh-ride, 
and, as then, it was wholly unrelieved by any of the light orna- 
ments or trimmings with which females take so much pleasure in 
setting otr their charms. Such was then the mode for school- 
girls, but young ladies brought out like Miss De Groot, seldom 
adopted it unless in the retired hours of the morning. But her 
exquisite loveliness defied the sombre and in itself ungraceful 
garb. She looked at herself steadily a few moments, while Alban 
wondered. Not the slightest shade of self-complacency was dis- 
cernible on the soft, girlish countenance which he saw reflected 
in the mirror, but her sparkling resentment gradually subsided 
into melancholy sweetness — a sort of self-pity, and her eyes sank 
modestly as she resumed her seat. She addressed Alban as if she 
had forgotten the singular excitement under which she had 
uttered things so remarkable for a girl of her age, and, as Alban 
thought, scarcely feminine in sentiment. 

“ Do you understand German, Mr. Alban ? I was reading a 
German romance to Miss Everett when you came in. It is called 
Ondine, and is very, very beautiful.” 

There was something very pretty in her way of saying this. 
At Alban’s request she gave him an outline of the story, which 
interested him. 

“ The manner in which it is told is eveiy thing,” she said. 

Alban had frequently glanced round the apartment with an 
observant eye during this conversation. It had an aspect of 
urban luxury, not usual in New Haven. A sea-coal fire blazed 
within the manfel-piece of black marble ; there were silken dra- 
peries, rosewood furniture. On one side of the high, polished 
mahogany door, stood a piano open. He ventured to ask Miss De 
Groot for some music. He had heard of her singing and playing 
as something quite superior. 

‘‘ It is,” said Miss Everett. “ Do, Mary, play something for 


132 


ALBAN. 


Mr. Atherton, to show him that you are not quite such a little 
savage as he suspects.” 

“ No, not to-day,” said Miss De Groot, in an absolute way. 
“ The next time he comes to see us I will play for him as much 
as he likes.” 

The college and the town clock struck five, and the chapel- 
hell began to ring for prayers cheerily. Our hero rose to go. 

“ Ah, that is for chapel, is it, Mr. Alban ?” 

“ I am sorry you are not obliged to he in your place among 
the Freshmen,” he replied, smiling. 

“ So am I,” she answered, rather gravely, although her zips 
smiled. Her dark eyes looked up to him more sad than merry 
for a half minute, and then were withdrawn according to her 
wont. “ I would wear a thick green veil to the chemical lecture,” 
she added, “if I were not afraid somebody would divine my 
motive. Please, Mr. Atherton, keep my little eccentricities to 
yourself.” 

“ How much character she has !” he thought, as he hurried 
down the avenue. “ Rather more than I like, but I don’t think 
she can be a flirt ; time will show.” 


ALBAN. 


133 


CHAPTER IX. 

Conversations "with Mr. Soapstone occurred daily, and more 
than once a day. Breakfast, dinner, or tea seldom passed without 
Mr. Soapstone finding some occasion to insinuate or proclaim his 
views of the Church, and Alban made so many hypothetical ad- 
missions that the clergyman was the more irritated, and yer urged 
on, by his obstinate skepticism. On one point the High Churchman 
speedily obtained a victory. He convinced Alban that Baptismal 
Regeneration was the doctrine of the New Testament ; but this, in 
the latter’s peculiar state of mind, only set him to weighing how 
far the Apostles and Evangelists themselves were worthy of cre- 
dence, in matters, as he said, of opinion. Meanwhile Christmas 
week arrived, and one evening after tea the Episcopal minister 
broke ofi' his customary argument to visit the chapel which was 
his special charge. He invited Alban to accompany him, and our 
young friend, who liked to hear Mr. Soapstone talk, readily con- 
sented. 

“ The chapel is gothic, you observe, Mr. Atherton,” said the 
clergyman as they approached it. “ Mark the picturesqueness of 
its hooded towers against the night sky ! How superior to those 
poor Grecian fronts with wooden spires erected by the schismatics 
on the green ! It was the Catholic Church that perfected the 
glorious pointed architecture.” 

“ Of which the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United 
States is the modern representative,” observed Alban. 

“ Say rather the purest modern Branch,” said Mr. Soapstone. 

“ That is what I meant to say,” returned our hero. “The 
other branches are rotten, and he who hangs by them will be apt 
to catch a fall. If one could only be sure that this one was 
sound. However !” 

They entered the chapel by an obscure vestibule choked with 

13 


134 


ALBAN . 


greens. The interior presented a white-walled oblong, with a 
plaster ceiling. A gallery, painted in imitation of oak, and caiwed 
in a running ogive pattern, ran round three sides, and was already 
hung with heavy festoons ef evergreen, intermingled with the huge 
letters of an inscription. The aisles (an incorrect term, as Mr. 
Soapstone observed) were littered with boughs of pine, spruce, and 
cedar, and a large party of young gentlemen and ladies were dis- 
persed through the church, tying wreaths, dressing columns, or 
planning where to place inscriptions. There was a good deal of 
talking, and occasionally a laugh. 

The principal operators were collected in the chancel. A 
couple of young ladies were in the pulpit. They were covering 
the purple-velvet book-cushion with white, which was to be 
trimmed with evergreen. Below them, a young gentleman 
mounted on the reading desk, was affixing a sacred symbol in 
laurel to the front of the pulpit, an operation which other young 
ladies were anxiously watching from below. On one side, a long 
slender ladder rested against the wall ; and in front of the desk, 
between the communion table and the rail, some six or seven 
young people of both sexes were consulting about the mode of 
putting up the chief inscription by which the chancel was to be 
adorned. Some sat on the rails ; one young lady was half 
sitting on the holy table itself, which had on it besides, some ever- 
green twigs, a pair of scissors, and a ball of twine. A lamp or 
two along the gallery, and tallow candles on the desk, illumined 
this scene. 

“ Hats on !” was the first low exclamation of the minister. 
He walked hastily up the middle aisle. “ Do you know,” said 
he, addressing a young man, “ that this is a consecrated build- 
ing ?” 

In a few minutes, by dint of like reproofs, and of the signs 
which the guilty individuals made to others, all the hats were 
removed. Mr. Soapstone approached the chancel. 

“ What, young ladies 1 sitting on the communion rail ! sitting 
on the altar ! Miss Reynolds !” 


ALBAN. 


135 


“ I declare I didn’t know that it wa^ an altar, Mr. Soapstone !” 
said the young lady, starting up with a blush. 

“ Where is Miss Ellsworth ? Pray, Miss Ellsworth, let those 
articles be removed from the altar. This is really a — desecra- 
tion of which I should not have expected Church people to be 
guilty.” 

Miss Ellsworth was conversing with Mr. St. Clair on the cul- 
ture of the sentiment of veneration by the usages of the Episcopal 
Church, and she colored violently at this address. 

“ We must have some place to lay things,” she said, rather 
shortly, “ and I suppose, Mr. Soapstone, there is no peculiar holi- 
ness in the table itself” 

“We always laid the things we used in dressing the church 

on the communion table, and Mr. (naming Mr. Soapstone’s 

predecessor) never reproved us for it,” cried Miss Reynolds. 

“ Are we to put the ball of twine in our pockets ?” demanded 
a black-eyed gipsy, “ and set the young gentlemen hunting for it 
till they find it ? That will be the best way, I think, Kate,” 
flinging back her curls. 

“ Now this shows the importance of the appropriate arrange- 
ment of chancels,” observed Mr. Soapstone to Alban. “ If the 
altar here w'ere a foot higher, a young lady could not sit on it ; 
and if it were set against the eastern wall, as it should be, and 
raised a few steps above the chancel floor, no one would think of 
laying things upon it. I hope to see it done yet, and the pulpit 
and desk turned out altogether. The chancel, Mr. Atherton, 
should be appropriated to the altar alone.” 

Miss Ellsworth dissented from these principles. She thought 
the pulpit would be very inconveniently placed for hearing and 
seeing, anywhere but exactly where it stood. Mr. Soapstone and 
she argued the matter at some length. He pronounced the exist- 
ing arrangement of the chancel Genevan, and said that it 
savored of “ anti-sacramental heresy.” She was afraid that her 
pastor’s ideas about the altar savored of anti-protestant supersti- 
tion. Nor was she, it may be imagined, disposed to be complying 


136 


ALBAN. 


when Mr. Soapstone suggested that a pair of plated candlesticks 
should be put upon the altar when it was dressed. Miss Ellsworth 
thought that candles on the altar were a symbol of Popery. She 
was sure it would give offence ; she would not have any thing to 
do with dressing the church if it were persisted in ; she had been 
decidedly opposed to a cross among the decorations ; candles were 
worse. Mr. Soapstone was obliged to yield the point for the pres- 
ent. The only voice raised to sustain him was Miss De Groot’s. 
She had first suggested the cross, and she approved of the lights. 
Both, she thought, had a beautiful significance. But as Miss De 
Groot was a Unitarian, her support rather injured Mr. Soapstone’s 
cause. 

The Christmas dressing meanwhile proceeded. The inscription 
was got up, and was beautiful : — Emmanuel, in letters formed of 
wild laurel, on a ground of white artificial roses. The chancel 
was gradually converted into a bower of evergreens mixed with 
flowers. 

“ There is one other point,” observed Mr. Soapstone to Alban, 
“ that I should like to press, but I abstain on account of Miss 
Ellsworth’s irritation. The young gentlemen have taken off their 
hats, which is well ; but the young ladies, on the other hand, 
should put on their bonnets. All those ringleted and braided 
heads in the very sanctuary are extremely out of place.” 

“ Miss De Groot keeps on her hood.” 

“ She has a fine sense of propriety. She would become a con- 
sistent church-woman with a little instruction. I think she has 
already a tendency. I must lend her some books. Let us go and 
speak to her.” 

Miss De Groot had retreated with the Miss Reynolds who had 
sat on the altar, to a distant pew where they were working to- 
gether on a wreath. Some young gentlemen who approached 
them had already been sent away with short answers. Alban fol- 
lowed his reverend friend slowly, as doubting whether the youngj 
ladies did not prefer to be left alone. Miss Ellsworth also detained] 
him by asking his advice. He came up to the retired party in 


ALBAN . 


137 


0 

time to hear Mr. Soapstone say, “ Were you baptized in the Uni* 
tarian denomination, Miss De Groot ?” 

“ I was never baptized at all, sir.” 

“ Never baptized, Mary !” cried Miss Reynolds. 

“ Never baptized. Miss Mary !” exclaimed Alban. 

“ Papa does not believe in infant baptism.” 

Mr. Soapstone seemed less shocked than our hero expected. 

“ If you become a church-woman. Miss De Groot,” he said, 
“ you will have no schismatical baptism to give you scruples.” 

“ But this makes Miss De Groot absolutely a heathen, does it 
not ?” asked Alban. 

“ She is not worse off than half my flock,” replied the Episcopal 
minister, coolly, “ who were originally Congregationalists, and have 
never received a valid baptism.” 

“ Like me,” said Miss Reynolds. 

“ Mr. Soapstone puts us in the same category, Mr. Alban,” said 
Mar}' De Groot, looking up with a smile, “ so you need not look 
down on me so pityingly.” 

Alban was silent, pondering the mystery of his own inconsist- 
ency, how, while he was questioning the truth of Christianity itself, 
he should be so much shocked at another’s w'anting its initiatory 
Sacrament. 

“ There,” said Miss De Groot at last, holding up the result of 
her industry, “ whether I am a Christian or not, I have made you 
a cross of native holly, Mr. Soapstone.” 

Mr. Soapstone was delighted. Alban, even after all he had 
seen of him, was a good deal surprised at the undignified eagerness 
with which he caught at the prospect of setting up a cross of ever- 
greens over his altar, although well aware that it would give 
great oflence to at least half his parishioners. He seemed to think 
that if the material symbol could once be set there, it was a great 
point gained in the progress, as he expressed it, of Catholicism in 
the Church. 

The cross, nevertheless, w'as finally placed over the commu- 
nion-table, and then, as Mr. Soapstone could not bear to leave his 
' 12 * 


138 


ALBAN. 


work unfinished, the candles w'ere set wpon it. This procedure 
caused many heart-burnings in the parish, although the Protestant 
mind was then far less sensitive than Puseyism has since made it. 
Miss Ellsworth, who “ had set her face against the cross,” as 
Mary De Groot said, was highly displeased. Alban was curious 
to know from what motives the latter young lady had acted. 
They seemed to be mixed ; — a little malice towards Miss Ells- 
worth, some wilfulness about having her own way, the love of 
what was in itself beautiful and perfect, and, at the bottom of all, 
a lurking, hardly conscious devotion to the Cross as the symbol of 
redemption. As they were all leaving the church, she turned 
back, and unobserved, except by Alban, Avho was furtively watch- 
ing her, slightly bent her knee toAvards the simple altar. 

“ In what light do you regard Christ ?” asked Alban, as he 
walked by her side. “ Do you regard Him as in any sense your 
Saviour ?” 

“ Why, Mr. Atherton, what a question ! Of course, I do. 
Does not the Bible say that the Lord Jesus Christ is our Saviour ? 
Do you really suppose that Unitarians are heathens ?” 

“ But does not God say in the Bible, ‘ Beside me there is no 
Saviour V If Christ is our Saviour, it appears to me that He 
must be our God.” 

“ It is a sweet idea,” said Mary De Groot, “that Christ is our 
God ; I could adore Him with all my heart if I were not afraid of 
committing idolatry.” 

“ The real idolatry, it seems to me, would be in ascribing sal- 
vation to a creature.” 

Miss De Groot half apologized to Alban for accepting his 
escort home, although she had taken his proffered arm as a matter 
of course. 

“ I have been here almost all the afternoon,” she said. “ I 
had no idea of being kept so late.” 

“ To see you home is an envied privilege. Miss Mary — if you 
will overlook the compliment.” 

“ Oh ! I overlook a great many every day,” she replied. 


ALBAN. 


139 


Our hero’s theological notions were now so completely topsy- 
turvy that he refrained from speaking of Miss De Groot’s unbap- 
tized condition, although he kept thinking of it. She herself, 
after replying absently to several observations of his on light 
topics, alluded again to this. 

“ Is it worse to be unbaptized than to be a Unitarian ?” she 
asked. 

“ According to Mr. Soapstone it makes you a child of wrath. 
Miss Mary.” 

“ Oh ! do you believe in original sin, then ?” 

“ It was the doctrine of the Apostles.” 

" Then, for example, I am a totally depraved creature. That 
must be false,” she exclaimed, indignantly. ‘‘I know I have 
faults. You may call them sins, if you please. But I have some 
virtues too. I always endeavor to act justly by others. I am 
conscientious about myself — far more so, Mr. Alban,” she added 
proudly, “ than these young ladies who say that I am no Chris- 
tian. I would sooner die than utter a falsehood, or admit an 
impure thought.” She spoke in a sweet, sweet voice, but with 
vehemence. 

“ You never told a lie ?” 

“Never deliberately, since I was a very little girl, Mr. Alban. 
And I have told the truth a thousand times when I was sure to 
be punished or ridiculed for it.” 

“ From pride, perhaps,” said Alban, “ which is the sin of sins.” 

“ Because I wish and mean to be a good girl, — if that is pride.” 

“ The true motive would be the love of God, who forbids and 
hates lying,” said Alban. 

“ Do you always act from that motive, Mr. Alban ?” she de- 
manded, after a pause, and half sobbing like a child reproved. 

“ Indeed I fear not,” said Alban, soothingly. 

“ Papa taught me when I was little that it was noble to tell 
the truth, and that a liar was despicable,” said Miss De Groot, 
recovering herself. “ But I trj/ to act from the better motive you 
spoke of just now, Mr. Alban, for I had a friend who taught me 


140 


ALBAN. 


to. She used to say that truth and purity were no virtues if they 
proceeded from any other ; but that vexed me to hear.” 

“ Do you then expect to merit heaven by your good life, Miss 
Mary ?” said Alban, as a last resource. 

“ No, Mr. Alban, I expect that from God’s infinite goodness. 
He gave me my being and a thousand good gifts for which I daily 
thank Him, without any merit of mine. He will give me, I 
trust, a blissful immortality in the same way. In that sense, as 
papa says, I allow that salvation is of grace.” 

“ There is more truth in your way of thinking than many of 
my friends would allow,” replied Alban. “ But where does Christ 
come in, on your system ? How is He }X)ur Saviour ?” 

“ Mr. Alban, I will be candid. I am not contented with my 
own thoughts about Christ, nor with my father’s explanation how 
He saves us. I say my prayers in His name, but what that 
means, is dark to me.” 

At the foot of the avenue they met Mr. Everett, Miss De 
Groot’s bachelor host, coming for her. Alban, therefore, reluc- 
tantly resigned his charge, who, on her part, however, bade him 
good night with no outward sign of regret. As he watched them 
from a distance going up the snowy avenue he heard them laugh- 
ing gayly. 

Mary De Groot Avas giving her new companion a droll ac- 
count of the scenes at church. When they reached home, she had 
to tell it all again to Miss Everett, and again there was much 
pleasantry at the expense of the Episcopalians. Perhaps it was 
rather unsympathizing and contemptuous in its tone. A glass of 
cold water and a dry biscuit were brought in for Miss De Groot, 
who had not supped, and then, without prayers, but with very af- 
fectionate good-nights, the brother and sister and their youthful 
guest departed to their several chambers. 

Mary De Groot Mid not linger in the sitting-room to put up 
her hair, say her prayers, or unhook her dress ; — perhaps, because 
there was a hickory fire and Miss Everett’s maid waiting for her 
in her own room. Her simple night-toilet was soon dispatched. 


ALBAN. 


141 


she was left alone, and, kneeling down at the side of the French 
bed which graced the Everetts’ elegant guest-chamber, blessed 
herself, as a Catholic would express it, i. e., made the sign of the 
cross from the forehead to the breast, and folding her hands, said 
“Our Father’’ slowly in a low voice. Then she blessed herself 
again, as her Catholic mother doubtless had taught her in infancy, 
and so with this simple devotion laid herself to rest. 

Fair child of the first Adam ! but not unconscious haply of 
the faint impulsions of prevenient grace, and saved yet by the 
sign on thy forehead from the adversary qui tanquam leo rugiens 
circuit, qiicerens quern devoret , — may pitying angels guard thy 
virgin repose. 


✓ 


142 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER X. 

The chapel which our young friends had assisted to adorn 
was excessively crowded at the service on Christmas Eve. Tlie 
chancel was much admired, particularly the effect of the numer- 
ous lights of the pulpit, desk, and communion table, glittering 
among the fresh evergreens. The centre, however, of this illumi- 
nation, was Mr. Soapstone himself, first in the desk in his surplice, 
and then in the pulpit in his gown. Mr. Soapstone, though a res- 
olute Laudian, (for the name of Puseyite was not yet familiarly 
known,) stuck to the gown. He looked well in it, and particularly 
well that evening. The white “ choker,” as O’Connor profanely 
called Mr. Soapstone’s cravat, and the cambric bands were beau- 
tifully relieved by the black cassock, and the ample silken sleeves 
of the gown gave scholastic dignity to the preacher’s graceful 
gestures. 

The sermon was capital. Mr. Soapstone had talents of no or- 
dinary kind, and on this occasion, knowing that there would be a 
great gathering of “ Dissenters,” he laid himself out. His subject 
was the Divine Institution of the Festival System, and the point 
he made was, that in instituting the Festivals of the Old Law, the 
Divine Prudence had instituted the system, and sanctioned the 
principle, which the Church had carried out in new Feasts, the 
Memorials of new Mercies. Substituting, perhaps, cause for effect, 
he was inclined to connect the preservation of orthodoxy with the 
use of Festivals, and concluded by charging upon the Puritan re- 
jection of the Festival system, the rise of that baleful heresy of 
Unitarianism, which so much infected the Congregationalist 
Churches of New England. Some of our student friends warm- 
ly discussed the sermon as they moved on with the outpouring 
crowd. 

“ Abominable to abuse us in that way,” said Winthrop, “ after 


ALBAN. 


145 


we had helped to dress the church for him. I’ll be hanged if 
ever I do it again.” 

“ As if there had never been any Socinians in the Episcopal 
Church,” exclaimed a charity student. “ Why, the fact is just 
the reverse.” > 

“ Yes, but it arose undoubtedly from neglecting to dress their 
churches properly with Christmas greens,” observed St. Clair. 

“ It wants something deeper than this mechanism to keep 
alive faith,” said Alban. 

“ You are right there, Mr. Atherton. It wants grace, sir,” 
cried O’Connor. “ Carroll and I are going to sing carols to-night. 
As your sentiments are satisfactory, will you join us ?” 

Here our friends had to cross a street, and were stopped in a 
heap by a sleigh with ladies in it, from the church door, dashing 
by in the dark with loud jingling bells. A lady waved her hand. 

“ It is the Everetts and Miss De Groot,” said Winthrop. “ I 
wonder how they liked the slap about the Unitarian heresy.” 

The Everetts and Miss De Groot were much displeased. Miss 
Everett wondered (as if she had never wondered before) at the 
illiberality of the orthodox. She thought that after Mary had 
helped to dress the church, and had made the very cross for Mr. 
Soapstone’s “ altar,” when none of his own flock would do it, it 
was downright insulting. Miss De Groot was not so warm as 
was her wont when any thing occurred to rouse her high spirit, 
although she could not suppress (perhaps she did not try) a slight 
bitterness in commending Mr. Soapstone for his candor and con- 
sistency. If he really believed our Saviour to be God, he must 
treat them as heretics. She went on to confess that the service 
was so beautiful, the lessons, the collects, the chanting and all, 
were so impressive, so devotional, (Mary was seldom so wordy,) 
that several times before the sermon began she had wished herself 
an Epi.scopalian. But hearing such uncharitable opinion^ ex- 
pressed had completely repelled her. Mr. Everett observed with 
emphasis that it was language which w'ould be appropriate in the 
mouth of a Catholic ! He could find nothing to say more cutting ! 


144 


ALBAN. 


“ I wonder,” said Mary De Groot, “ why we do not adopt some 
of the Episcopal forms. What right have they to monopolize 
every thing beautiful ?” 

“At the Stone church in Boston they do use a liturgy,” re- 
marked Miss Everett, “ and they dress the church for Christmas, 
which is rather against Mr. Soapstone’s theory.” 

“ They are much attached to it,” said her brother. “ I won- 
der, as Mary says, that it has never spread.” 

“ /s it true, as Mr. Soapstone mentioned, that there is a Uni- 
tarian New Testament with the story of our Saviour’s birth put 
between brackets — ?” 

“As of doubtful authenticity. Well, I have seen such a booki 
Mary, but it is a calumny to say that it is in use. It was first 
edited by an English archbishop, too, I have heard, and Coleridge, 
who is a great Church-of-England man, and a stanch Trinitarian, 
rejects the account of the miraculous birth of Jesus with con- 
tempt.” 

“ But that is shocking,” said Mary. “ One might as well give 
up the whole Bible at once.” 

“ One can’t well enlarge upon it to you. Miss Mary, but it is a 
hard doctrine to believe.” 

“ Fie, James,” said Miss Everett. “ How can you ?” 

The sleigh jingled on amid a silence of the party in it, and 
dashed into the avenue to Mr. Everett’s house. But as it began 
to ascend the heavy carriage sweep. Miss De Groot suddenly burst 
forth in her warmest manner, as if giving way to a feeling which 
she had pent up from girlish delicacy. 

“ I as firmly believe,” she said, in a voice that trembled with 
passion, “ that the mother of our Saviour was always a spotless 
virgin, as that I am at this moment, and I declare it makes 
my heart swell with indignation that any Christian should dare 
to question it.” 

She would hardly take Mr. Everett’s hand when he offered to 
help her out of the sleigh, she was so angry. Perhaps to make 
his peace, Mr. Everett went to his library, and presently returning 


ALBAN. 


145 


with a thin quarto, bound in red morocco, handed it to his quick- 
tempered young guest with a penitent smile. 

“ That is the ‘ Chapel Liturgy,’ as they call it, Mary.” 

Mary took it eagerly, and began turning it over. 

“ Why, it is a kuid of abridgment of the Episcopal Prayer- 
book.” 

“ The addresses to the Trinity, and all prayers to Christ or to 
the Holy Ghost, are left out or altered, you will find.” 

“ Ah,” said Mary, “ I have heard papa say, that the Prayer- 
book is the Mass protestantized, and I suppose that the ‘ Chapel 
Liturgy’ is the Prayer-book socinianized.” She smiled, looking 
at Mr. Everett, as if they had always been the best of friends, and 
she had not been so angry with him the moment before as to re- 
solve never to speak to him again except with mere civility, 
“ Thank you, Mr. James. I must take it to my own room, if you 
please, and look it over.” 


13 


146 


ALBAN. 


/ . 


CHAPTER XI. 

The white dimity curtains of bed and window in the young 
guest’s room had a cold hut virginal air, like the white Marseilles 
quilt, in spite of the thick blankets it covered. She herself looked 
the same in her clean (Thursday) night-gear, the dark hair lo 
arid smooth on her pure brow, and holding out one of her rosy feei, 
to the fire, working its little toes, like an infant’s, in the warmtlL 
The toes were pretty enough to have rings on them, or bells, like 
the aged heroine’s in the nursery rhyme, 

“ With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,” 

hut Mary De Groot had none even on the former, i. e., no rings. 
Her virgin hands were absolved from all ornament save their own 
beauty, not only when undressed, as now, but at all times. 

After playing thus awhile as a child might, without aim, and 
so serenely that she might seem either an angel or quite soulless, 
she suddenly turned round from the fire to her chair, assumed her 
little ma’denly wrapper, thrust the fairy feet into their dear little 
slippers, and seated herself at a little table or stand, whereon 
wei'e placed her candle and the “ Chapel Liturgy.” Having read 
the preface intently, bending down upon it in a very school-girl 
* fashion, like as if she had been conning a lesson, she looked up 
and said aloud, 

“ My Unitarian friends excuse the alterations that they have 
made in adapting the Episcopal Prayer-book to their own use, on 
the same ground which the Episcopalians allege to justify the 
changes in their own service, from the old English Book of Com- 
mon Prayer ; and both cite the latter itself.” — Looks at the book 
and reads — “ 'Every 'particular Church has a right to ordain, 
change, and abolish cerononies or rites of the Church, ordained 
only by man's authority, so that all be done to edifying ' — 


ALBAN. 


147 


What more reasonable ! I declare, I should like to see what 
changes the American Episcopalians have made fi'om the English 
Prayer-book. That should be very instructive to a little girl 
like me.” 

To think and do were the same thing with Miss Mary De 
Groot. She rose quickly, drew the silken cords of her wrapper 
tighter round her waist, tripped with her candle to the chamber- 
door, and peeped out into the corridor. Mr. Everett’s boots lay 
outside his door. — “ After all, he is only an old bachelor !” said 
the girl of sixteen, and fluttered down stairs. She is in the 
library with her candle. 

“ Now, how in the name of goodness am I to find it ? Who 
knows if Mr. Everett has got one ? Ah, here is the theology — 
sermons — Channing, Clarke, Newcome, Tillotson, — ah, here it is ! 
But my ! it is a thick quarto — big enough for a church ! Oh, 
here is another that is smaller — never been used, I guess. Oh, 
Mr. J ames, you are not very devout ! And the American Prayer- 
book close by it, not near so well bound. I must have them both, 
Mr. James.” 

She returned 'exultingly with her prizes. The beautifully 
bound “ Common Prayer,” when unclasped, lay open of itself on the 
broad quarto page of the Chapel Liturgy ; the rigid American 
Prayer-book she held in one hand. She must spring up again to 
fetch from a drawer a well-worn volume of the pocket-size — the 
Manual of devotions which had belonged to her Catholic mother. 
It was in French, and contained among other things the ordinary 
of the Mass, with a translation in parallel columns. So the young 
girl began to collate and compare with a grave and singular pa- 
tience, having the old Roman Mass — the venerable Liturgy of St. 
Peter, and much of the daily Office, at one extreme, and the So- 
ciniau Chapel Liturgy at the other, as the final result of Protest- 
ant- improvements. In a very short time, perplexed by having 
so much before her at once, she devoted herself to those changes 
made by the American Episcopalians, in regard to which her curi- 
osity had been primarily excited. 


148 


ALBAN. 


“ What singular alterations are these !” she exclaimed aloud, 
in her way. “ What could have possessed the people to make 
them ! How vulgar, how unpoetical, — really — how impure they 
are ! — ” She put both her little hands before her blushing face, 
as if her delicacy had been shocked. — “ Oh, if I were an Episco- 
palian and knew that these things had been changed so, I should 
feel so ashamed !” ' 

As she got on she grew more excited and perplexed. Here 
was the creed of St. Athanasius, which the Church of England 
ordered to be read on all the great Feasts, cast out of the Ameri- 
can Prayer-book altogether. — “ Is it because it takes away all hope 
of salvation from us poor Unitarians ? How kind in the Ameri- 
can Episcopal Church to decline pronouncing so severe a sen- 
tence ! Oh, Mr. Soapstone ! you ought not to be so hard upon us 
since your Church will not say that we shall be condemned. 
Really how precise this Creed is on that point ! — ‘ He that will 
he saved, must thus think of the Trinity ' — ‘ Which faith 
except every one do keep ivhole and undefded, without doubt 
he shall p)crish everlastingly' Well, I like that,” said Mary, 
characteristically. “ We know what we have to expect. If, 
after such a warning we persist in being heretics, wq shall have 
nobody to blame but ourselves when we are sent to a bad 
place.” 

* . Mary De Groot actually cried over these plain and stern denun- 
ciations of the Church Catholic. They were tears of pride, but 
mingled with humility. She did not like to venture her salvation 
on the chance of Unitarianism bemg true ; for if it were false, it 
M^as clear that she, Mary De Groot, dying a Unitarian, would be 
damned — dreadful word — more dreadful thought ! Was it for 
that awful end that she had been brought into existence ? 

The omission of the Athanasian creed by the American 
Episcopal Church enabled even so inexperienced a mind as Mary 
De Groot’s to .see in its true light the next thing that naturally met 
her as she pursued her comparison through the morning and even-'’ 
ing prayer, and that was the rejection of the Evangelical Hymns 


ALBAN. 


149 


She would not have expressed her perception in those words, but 
she saw well enough that it indicated the ritual degeneracy which 
as certainly follows the loss of faith as bodily decay follows enfeebled 
vitality. The Church’s joy in her Divine Saviour — her mystical 
but real joy, ever fresh and new — was lost when the Song of 
Zachary was cut down. into a Jewish psalm by leaving out its 
personal peculiarities, when the Hymn of the Blessed Virgin exul- 
ting over the Incarnation, was cast aside as fools throw away a 
precious gem, and aged Simeon’s canticle, uttered with the Holy 
Ghost in his heart and the Lord in his arms, was dropped out of 
Even Song as inappropriate for the modern Christian’s Nunc 
dimittis. 

The intelligent and, in her way, highly cultured, though preju- 
diced, young girl had begun her investigation with the notion that 
ritual was uncon^iected with doctrine in any vital way. She had 
fancied that whatever was beautiful in the Episcopal worship 
might be easily accommodated to the w'ants of her own Church. 
'A faint aesthetic idea had floated through her mind, of a Unitarian 
chapel in New York, either for the Chapel Liturgy, or something 
yet nearer to the Episcopalian rite which had so interested her that 
evening. Now a new light altogether had broken upon her. She 
saw that the old worship of the Church, from which by mutilation 
and corruption these Episcopal forms had been derived, was built 
upon the faith that Christ was God. 

“ If that faith be true, what an insult to Him is this Chapel 
Liturgy,” she thought. 

But what was the “ true Church” doing at the moment when 
this insult was offered ? — and in the same land ? — Casting out the 
Athanasian creed, mutilating Benedictus, throwing away Magni- 
ficat, ignorant why she ought to rejoice nightly at the “ Light to 
lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel,” thinking 
it bootless for her to sing any more “ For mine eyes have seen thy 
salvation.” 

Thus Mary thought, without framing her thought any more 
into words. Her head was confused and her heart perturbed, 

13 * 


150 


ALBAW. 


Although it was already midnight, she was about to take up her 
Catholic mother’s manual of devotion, when a strain of sweet, ani- 
mated, soul-cheering music suddenly broke the silence of the hour. 
She remembered that it was Christmas, and, putting out her light, 
went to the window, opened the shutters, and looked out upon the 
snowy lawn where the carollers stood. 

There was a violin with manly voices. She opened the win- 
dow a little, and to her ear came words which sung of the Babe of 
Bethlehem as the Mighty God. It had been the faith of ages 
that Heaven and Earth were espoused on this sacred night, — that 
God had appeared at this time in the nature of man to be the 
Saviour of men. Mary made haste and knelt with her face to the 
starry sky where angels carolled eighteen centuries before. 

“ 0 God,” she exclaimed, “ of the substance of Thy Father, 
begotten before the worlds ! Man, of the substance of thy Mother, 
born in the world ! I believe in Thee — I adore Thee. Teach me 
Thy will. Lead me in Thy way.” 


ALBAN. 


151 


CHAPTER XII. 

Christmas Day came, and the weather had changed again. 
Snow fell in great soft flakes, thick and fast, piling the streets 
with huge drifts. There was good cheer within, not so general as 
on the national festival of Thanksgiving, but still to be found in 
houses where no other notice was taken of the commemoration of 
the Saviour’s birth. Some families, indeed, took a pride in not 
deviating a hair’s breadth from their every-day life, but, on the 
whole, the time was gone by when the Puritans (although that was 
not in New England) appointed the Nativity of the Lord a public 
fast. The shops, however, were not generally closed, nor were any 
places of worship open for divine service, except the beautiful 
Episcopal churches and one small chapel in the poorest part of the 
town, plain as a Methodist meeting-house, and which might have 
been mistaken for one but for a wooden cross that crowned its 
gable. 

Mary De Groot was puzzled what to do that day. She longed 
to repair to church to honor her new-found Saviour, new-born that 
day in the Church’s aflectionate forgetfulness of time, and new 
found by herself, a prize of her heart, a treasure of her faith, secret 
but dear, as to Her who first knew that wonder of wonders. 
Should not she repair to Bethlehem and worship at the manger ? 
But whither ? — Vere tu es Deus absconditus, Deus Salvator — 
words found, with a translation, annexed to the act of Faith in her 
mother’s manual — was a sentence that ever trembled on her lips. 

If she had been in Boston (inconsistent as it may appear) she 
would have gone to King’s chapel to worship her “ hidden God,” 
even in the forms of the “ Chapel Liturgy or if there had been 
a Congregationalist meeting-house in New Haven open that day for 
worship, she would have attended it ; or in New York, she would 
have hastened, not unjoyfully, to the old South Dutch church, where 


152 


ALBAN . 


the old De Groot pew was still retained, though seldom visited by 
the family ; hut she was in New Haven, and her friends took it 
quietly for granted that she would not wish to attend either of the 
Episcopal churches after the evening’s experience. This taking- 
for-granted was a mighty obstacle in the young girl’s path, harder 
to overcome than the snow which blocked up the avenue. She 
could not propose walking, and on what pretence ask for the 
sleigh ? 

“ They will think I want to see or he seen by some of the stu- 
dents who will be there. Mary Ellsworth, I know, will say so if 
I come out in all thi.- storm, not being an Episcopalian. I have 
no right to go anywhere. And I won’t expose myself to such an 
imputation from those girls.” 

Tap, tap, tap, went the little fingers on the frosty pane of the 
breakfast-room window. The garden paths, the paths of the leaf- 
less wood beyond, were choked with snow. The frozen linen on 
the clothes-lines swung stiffly in the wind. Mr. Everett came to 
the window, shrugged his shoulders hopelessly at the dreary scene, 
remarked that it was going to prove a stormy Christmas, and that 
he was glad they were not going to dine out. Then he looked 
down at his slippers, worked by Mary and purchased by him at the 
fair at an extravagant price, and said he should adjourn to the 
library, where perhaps his guest would by and by make him a visit 
in search of an old novel for this gloomy day. So he took himself 
off. Calm, cold, handsome, heavy man of five and forty was Mr. 
Everett. 

Miss Everett sat on the edge of a chair with one foot on the 
grate-fender, and one hand protecting her knee from the fire. She 
was glad, too, that they were not going out, and she meant to spend 
the morning in answering letters. She looked up at her blooming 
guest who had glided to her side, and wondered for the five hun- 
dredth time that Mary never put her hair in papers, it would look 
so beautifully, curled in her neck, and she liked to see it in girls of 
her age. The “ Middle church” clock began to strike nine. The 
College clock told the solar tinae, and then, instead of the vooifer- 


ALBAN. 


153 


ous 'College bell for study hours, commenced a deep, deliberate, 
church-going peal from the gothic tower of Trinity — the first 
Episcopal bell. The young girl’s heart began to heat, and she 
w'as trj’ing to frame a petition that she might be sent to church 
after all, since it wa^ Christmas, when sleigh-bells jingled suddenly 
in the background, and, glancing out of the window, she saw 
David and the horses dashing off with a wood-sled, and she knew 
that he had been sent to draw a load of pine. She suppressed her 
petition, and departed with an excuse to her own room. 




154 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ Merry Christmas, Bridget.” 

“ Thank you kindly, miss, and many more of the same to your- 
self,” said the housemaid, who was finishing Miss De Groot’s room. 

“ Have you seen my presents, Bridget ? Well, you must come 
into the drawing-room by and by, and I will show them to you, — 
the most beautiful English holiday books from papa, a set of corals 
complete from mamma, a gold pencil from Mr. Everett, and from 
Miss Everett an elegant copy of a book that I admire very much. 
Besides it all, papa has sent me a beautiful Paris box of bonbons, 
that is, sugar- plums, with a picture of the Holy Family on the lid, 
which I know you will admire very much. They arg ali arranged 
on a table to show Mr. Everett’s company at dinner to-day ; but 
you must go in and see them, Bridget.” 

“ That I will, miss ; but you can’t be more plased with your 
fino presents, miss, than I and Sally Ann was with the beautiful 
collars you give us. I haven’t thanked you for it before. Miss 
Mary, and sure I’m very much obliged to you for thinking of me 
at all.” 

“ You don’t go to church to-day, I suppose, Bridget ?” 

“ Indeed I’ve been to five-o’clock mass, miss.” 

“ Do you mean to say that you had church at five o’clock this 
morning ?” 

“ Surely, miss. The first mass — that’s the midnight mass in 
Ireland — was at five o’clock. In this country I’ve niver known 
a'mass properly at midnight.” 

“ And when is the second mass ?” inquired the young lady 
with interest. 

“ The second mass was directly after the first, miss.” 

“ They are both over then !” with disappointment. 

“ There’s the third mass at half-past ten, miss.” ' 


ALBAN. 


155 


“ You have mass again at half-past ten, Bridget?” said Miss 
De Groot, with animation. 

“ With music, miss, and Father Smith vdll praach. Being 
the only Catholic in the house, none of the servants wants to go 
to church to-day but myself. And Father Smith doesn’t come 
veiy often, miss. It is a month, come Sunday, since we had a 
mass before.” 

“ Is that why you have three masses to-day, Bridget ?” 

“ Oh, no, bless you, miss. ’Tis on account of Christmas. 
Every priest says three masses on Christmas Day, because Christ 
was first begotten of His Father from all eternity, and secondly 
born of the Blessed Virgin to-day, and thirdly every day in the 
hearts of believers.” Bridget said this in such*a tone as made it 
easy to see she was repeating something often heard. There was 
a little innocent pride, too, in understanding her religion, which 
made the y^ung lady smile. 

“ I want to go to this third mass with you, Bridget,” said 
Miss De Groot, “ but you must not say any thing to any body of 
my intention. I know that the walking is very bad, but I shan’t 
mind that in going to pour church.” 

In her sober walking apparel of dark-green merino and tartan 
shawl, and with her hood drawn close over her face, she may 
pass for a young 'servant girl. By Bridget’s advice she has drawn 
on a pair of coarse woollen socks over her boots, for in the drifts 
the snow is knee-deep. Here she toils till her breast is filled 
with sharp pain at every rough breath she draws. Even in the 
streets of New Haven, the deep-lying snow is not shovelled off 
the sidewalks, and they go, although more easily, yet with fatigue, 
in the middle of the street. By and by they strike into a well- 
tramped path. People are following it in single file. On the 
steps of the plain church with a cross upon its gable, the females 
shake the snow from their garments, and stamp it from their feet. 

The interior of the chapel (it scarcely merited to be called a 
church) was rude. Instead of pews were rows of benches with 
backs. The men were on one side and the women on the other. 


156 


ALBAN. 


and both sexes spread their handkerchiefs on the floor (at least 
many did) to save their clothes in kneeling. The altar was of 
plain unpainted deal, and yet it was rather solemn from its eleva- 
tion and furniture. The chalice was upon it, under a veil of white 
silk very richly embroidered in gold and colors. There were no 
lights except a taper that burned in a common glass tumbler. 

Mary De Groot has knelt down by Bridget, has crossed herself 
' in imitation of the latter, and because, in fact, she is used to do 
so in her private prayers, and has opened her Journee du Chretien 
to find a fitting devotion. In her life before she has never offered 
one like that which first meets her eye, being the first morning 
act in the manual. The young coirvert from Unitarianism uses 
it with a beating 1‘eart. 

“ Most holy and most august Trinity, one only God in Three persons, I 
believe that Thou art here present. I adore Tliee with feelings of profound 
humility, and render Thee, with my whole heart, the homag9’'due to Thy 
sovereign majesty.” 

The doctrine of the Trinity was one that she had not yet 
thought of. To her it had always seemed to be a doctrine of three 
Gods. But she remembered that stern Athanasian creed — “ lie 
that loill he saved must thus think of the Trinity” 

“ I submit,” she cried, iiaternally, and bending herself adored 
the Triune God. 

The act seemed to liberate her soul, and give it a freedom be- 
fore unknown. With a generous courage, offspring of divine 
faith, she followed the rest of the prayers in her book, at once with 
her heart and her lips. 

“ My God, I most humbly thank Thee for all the favors Thou hast be- 
stowed upon me hitherto. It is owing to Thy goodness that I see this day ; 
I will therefore employ it in serving Thee. I consecrate to Thee its thoughts, 
words, actions, and sufferings. Bless them, Lord, that there may not be one 
which is not animated by Tliy love, or tends not to Thy glory. 

“Adorable Jesus! divine model of the perfection to which we should 
aspire, I will apply myself as much as I can to make myself like Thee : 
meek, humble, chaste, zealous, patient, charitable, and resigned like Thee. 


ALBAN, 


157 


I will use every effort not to fall to-day into the faults I so often commit, but 
which I sincerely desire to correct. * 

“ My God, Thou knowest my weakness. I can do nothing without Thy 
grace. Refuse it me not. Give me strength to shun every ill Thou forbid- 
dest, to do all the good Thou requirest, and to suffer patiently whatever 
afflictions it shall please Thee to send me.” 

“ If an angel,” thought Mary, “ had descended to teach me 
prayers for this morning, what else could he have said ?” 

These prayer? were in French, but next came some in Latin, 
and not knowing where to find the translation, she skipped until 
she came to the Litany of Jesus, where the two languages ran 
side by side. She had just finished reciting it with a great deal 
of fervor, for it was just what she wanted, and the Agnus, Dei, 
which so many say coldly, moved her to tears, for the first time 
supplicating Christ as the Lamb of God, when the great candles 
were lit. 

“ Do the Catholics have little clergymen ?” thought Mary, 
with an innocent smile, but pleased, when six young boys in 
cassocks and white cottas entered with the priest. 

The lace of the latter’s albe, and the embroidery of his vest- 
ment also caught her female eye, and made her throw a glance 
around the church. She had been so absorbed that she had not 
observed it filling. Every part of the floor was occupied by men 
or women, all kneeling, all of the humblest class of society. Their 
demeanor was the most devout she had ever witnessed. And 
now the music attracted her attention. She could not help look- 
ing back at the organ gallery, and saw that it was full of foreign 
music-teachers of both sexes, connected with the schools of New 
Haven. As she did not understand what was going on at the 
altar, her eye sufficed to attend to it, and her whole mental atten- 
tion was absorbed by that wonderful Kyrie. She perceived that 
the words were the same with which the litany she had just said, 
began, Kyrie eleiso7i, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison ! without 
end. At length it was done ; the congregation rose ; the chasu- 
bled priest sung something in a singular tone ; the choir recom- 

14 


158 


ALBAN. 


menced, and in a minute all sat down as if to hear it through. 
Bridget saw that Miss Mary was bewildered, and showed her that 
it was the Gloria in eoccelsis. 

“Oh, yes,” she thought, “ that is the song of the angels at the 
Saviour’s birth. That is what I came here to sing, at least in my 
heart. They are singing it in the mass.” 

Turning over the index of her little prayer-book, Mary had 
found the Messe de No'd ; and when the priest intoned the collect, 
epistle, and gospel, she was able to follow, while her familiarity 
with the Scriptures enabled her to understand it all very fairly, 
although the words were in a dead language. But in the gospel 
certain words were printed in Italics, Et Yerhum caro factum est, 
and when the priest, solemnly chanting, arrived at that point, he 
and the surpliced boys and the entire congregation bent the knee ; 
in a moment after, he took off his vestment, turned round to the 
people, still standing, and having received another book from one 
of his youthful assistants, said, 

“The gospel which has just been sung at mass is taken from 
the first chapter of the gospel of St. John.” 

He read it in English, down to the words And the Word was 
made Flesh, &c., and added, as he returned the book to the min- 
ister, “ You know, my brethren, that it was at these words we all 
Knelt just now when they were sung at mass.” 

“ Ah !” thought Mary, “ they believe in the Incarnation in 
this Church !” 


\ 


> 


ALBAN. 


159 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Mary was charmed and grateful when Father Smith took these 
words for the text of the discourse which he now delivered 
from the steps of the altar. It was the very theme which she 
desired to hear more fully treated — the dogma in which she newly 
believed — the Incarnation of the Eternal Word. Father Smith’s 
manner was fervent ; he gesticulated a good deal ; his accent was 
foreign ; but his thoughts were fresh, and his method singularly 
perspicuous. The congregation hung upon his lips. 

“In these words,” said the popish priest, — “The Word was 
MADE Flesh, — is contained the Root and principle of all that the 
Catholic Church believes and teaches; and yet this Root itself 
springs from a deeper ground, if I may say so, and is planted in 
the doctrine of the Divine Nature.” 

This exordium interested Mary deeply, and still more so when 
by throwing the idea into several shapes successively, the preacher 
rendered it distinctly intelligible not only to her, but, as she felt, 
to his entire audience. God, he explained to them, was one, and 
no unity was so simple or so perfect as His. The Divine Substance 
was one simple undivided, indivisible essence, one simple indivisi- 
ble Spirit, Which yet existed in Three Persons really distinct, 
without ceasing to be the Same in each ; a truth which we could 
not know except by particular revelation, but which when re- 
vealed contradicted neither consciousness nor experience, for both 
these were silent before it. The text declared that One of these 
Divine Persons became Flesh. The means by which this sublime 
union of Godhead and Manhood was accomplished was a creative 
act of the Three Divine Persons, whereby the Word and Son of 
God, according to the Will of His Father, and with the co-opera- 
tion of the Holy Ghost, assumed into Himself the whole and per- 
fect human nature, and became the Son of Man ; so that Jesus 


160 


ALBAN. 


Christ, the First-born of creation, the Anointed', in respect to the 
Holy Ghost Who dwelt in Him, was in Hirnscif the Everlasting 
Son of the Eternal Father, His Wisdom and His Word, by Whom 
He created all things, and Whose every earthly word and action 
was a Fiat of Almighty God. 

From this statement of the pure revealed doctrine of the God- 
head and Incarnation, the preacher proceeded to unfold its doc- 
trinal and practical consequences. A divine fact like that, he 
observed, could not stand alone in a barren solitude ; it was fruit- 
ful as the Divine nature itself. Neither could it be believed aloia 
in its naked simplicity ; it was but the seed of a joyful and abound- 
ing faith. Because the Word was made Flesh, we saw a visible 
Church, we heard an audible teaching, confessed a human priest- 
hood, sacraments with a sensible form and matter, saints working 
sensible miracles, vocal prayers, bodily penances. It was neces- 
sary to salvation not only that the heart be purified by faith, but 
that the body be washed with water. The Word made Flesh had 
ordained these things and filled thein with virtue ; and the Church 
knew their value, because, believing Him to be God, she under- 
stood all His words in their divinest, mightiest, most enduring 
sense. The Church never attached a common, weak, Jiuman 
meaning to any saying or any action of the Word made Flesh. 
When Incarnate Wisdom bade her teach all nations,” she knew 
that she became His organ and therefore infallible ; when the 
Mediator between God and Man declared “ Whose sins you shall 
forgive they are forgiven,” she knew that Penance became a 
Sacrament ; when the Creator pronounced “ This is My Body,” 
that Transubstantiation became a truth ; when the Pontiff after 
the order of Melchisedech, added, “ This is My Blood ivhich shall 
be shed for the remission of sins,” that the Mass was to be a 
sacrifice. For the whole doctrine of the Church had distilled from 
the lips of Christ, as her whole life was breathed into Her by His 
grace. 

While Father Smith was saying this, Mary De Groot was 
entirely convinced that these high dogmas of the Catholic Church 


ALBAN . 


161 


did indeed flow necessarily from the Incarnation of God ; but the 
objection recurred to her mind that that Church which so faith- 
ifully accepted the consequences of the Incarnation, did also make it 
null by setting up creature mediators, like the Virgin, and enthro- 
ning them in the place of the Saviour. Father Smith suddenly 
approached this theme in winding up his discourse. 

“ In nothing, my dear brethren,” he said, “is the faith of the 
Incarnation more manifest than in what the Church believes con- 
cerning the exaltation of the Saints. Christ declares that they 
shall reign with Him, that they shall sit with Him on His throne. 
So the Church understands that He is not injured by their glory 
— His own gift, nor disparaged by the intercessory mediation, 
which is but their promised participation of His. For He is their 
God and Lord, and cannot be excluded from any thing that they 
do. She knows, therefore, that He is in His Saints, is glorified in 
them, is invoked, intercedes, obtains graces, works wonders, and 
in a word, reigns in them ; so that while they really share His 
mediatorial throne. He, notwithstanding, wholly fills it, God and 
Man, the Saint of saints, and Crown of them all.” 

This was very startling to our young friend, but she saw its 
truth. Yet what followed was by no means unnecessary for the 
complete satisfaction of her mind. 

“ Above all,” concluded the father, in a softer voice, “ it is on 
the doctrine of the Incarnation that depends our love and vener- 
ation for that Blessed One whose womb bore the Eternal, whose 
paps this day gave Him suck. Mary is our mother because she 
is the Mother of our God. On the throne of the universe. He is 
constrained by the truth of His humanity to confess Himself her 
Son. And as it was through her individual faith, as the Scrip- 
ture testifies, that we received the Person of the Word into the 
bosom of our nature, so it is in her exaltation that our nature 
gains the highest glory which the Word made Flesh difiuses in 
His members without losing in Himself How vainly do men ad- 
mit a truth under one form of expression while they betray their 
unbelief by denying it in another ? When the Eternal was found 

14 * 


162 


ALBAN. 


as an infant of days, do they still wonder that a woman is ac- 
knowledged as the Mother of God ? If the Son of Mary Avere 
an exalted creature, our love for her might do Him an injury, 
but since He is the Creator of Mary, the Author of her merits, 
and their Infinite reward, all our homage to her but magnifies 
Him the more. The Catholic Church knows very well that 
Mary is a simple creature, and that she has nothing which she 
has not received. She is but the ark of the covenant, the gate of 
heaven, the golden mansion of our God and King, As such we 
revere her, but her Son is our God and King himself, and Him 
we adore. 

“ See then, my brethren, how simple in its principle is that 
holy faith, every article of which is guaranteed to you by the 
Divine veracity. Adhere to it with unshaken confidence, because 
God has revealed it. Believe on the Word made Flesh under 
every one of these lowly manifestations in which it has pleased 
Him to hide His majesty, that you may become the sons of God, 
according to the promise that has been read to you in the gospel : 
— a blessing which I wish you all. In the name of the Father, 

and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” 

The priest turned to the altar, threw the rolled up back of 
the chasuble over his head, replaced the maniple on his left arm, 
and the people rose. 


tok in nnuin Dfnm/' 


ALBAN. 


f 

163 


CHAPTER XV. 

“ It is my new faith,” said the young gir], “ which I came here 
to confess. The priest has said it at the altar ; they are singing it 
in the choir. I follow it in my heart. When the priest came to 
the words which confess the Incarnation, he and all the people 
with him knelt. Shall we do so again, I wonder, when the choir 
arrive at that part ? See, it comes, and the music pauses. Yes, 
the priest rises with the white-and-scarlet- vested boys ; they go to 
the front of the altar and kneel, and we kneel also. Ex Incar- 
NATUs EST. This is awful. Ex Homo facxus esx. We rise again. 
Wonderful Church ! Which believes the mystery and so compre- 
hends all truth. Did not I read in the Protestant Episcopal 
Prayer-book that the Nicene creed need 7iever be said by them 
but at the option of the minister ? Counterfeit Church, I know 
you by this hesitation 1 Wolf in sheep’s clothing and false pro- 
phet ! well may the anathema expire on your trembling lips.” 

Mary found no difficulty now in following in a general way 
the course of the glorious sacrifice. It would merely have dis- 
tracted her could she have traced more minutely an action at 
once so full and so rapid, in which every word has a value, every 
gesture a sense, whose boundless scope takes in three worlds, and 
darts from Abel’s offering to that of the present moment. She 
knew that there was an oblation, for she saw the lifted chalice. 
She saw the priest purify his hands, and prayed instinctively that 
her soul might be purified by grace, and her body washed with 
pure water, that she might be worthy to adore so awful a mystery. 
Sursum corda “ lifted her heart” to the Lord, and the sweet tones 
of the Preface of the Nativity : — but lo ! He comes in the name 
of the Lord, God and Lord like Him by Whom He is sent ! 
She saw the lights and incense, (ofiering of humble zeal to grace 
tliis much-loved day,) and she hasted to bow her head, while tlie 


164 


ALBAN. 


choir was hushed, and the bell alone broke the deep stillness by 
its quick and awful warning. 

The last thing at mass is, that after the benediction the priest 
reads a second gospel; — as a general rule, the beginning of the 
gospel of St. John, in the reading of which, as has been already 
noted, all kneel at the concluding sentence {^And the Word was 
made Flesh) in honor of the Incarnation. But as the reader will 
already have observed, this gospel is the proper gospel for the 
third mass on Christmas Day, and so another is read at the end, 
taken from St. Matthew, and containing the visit of the Magi to 
the infairt Redeemer. One of the females near our young convert, 
perceiving that she was a stranger to the worship, offered her 
here an English missal, with the place found, and pointed her to 
this gospel. Though exhausted and languid after so many emo- 
tions, Mary gratefully read it, understanding of course that it was 
the same which the priest was reading at the altar. 

“Faithful Church!” she again cried to herself, as she per- 
ceived whither this second gospel tended, “ she never loses sight 
of Him whom her soul loveth ! Her last glance is the same as 
her first. She was about to depart, but she turns to Him yet 
again, her Divine Spouse !” 

For at the words and falling down they adored Himf all 
again genuflected, and Mary saw that it was so enjoined in the 
book. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


Father, Smith had been up all night hearing confessions : the 
little church having been crowded with penitents from .six in the 
evening till the early mass. He had sung mass twice, and said 
one low mass between, giving communion to nearly four hundred. 
In the interval, he had administered Extreme Unction and the 
Viaticum to a dying woman, (Death waits not for festivals,) and 
although it was past midday, except in purifying the Chalice in 
the last mass, he had of course not broken his fast since midnight, 
by so much as a drop of cold water. His human nature had a 
right to be exhausted. But he has yet to make his thanksgiving 
for that Bread which whoso eats shall live for ever. He kneels 
in his long black soutane at a desk in one corner of the sacristy, 
with his face hidden in his hands. His close-cut hair is thickly 
sown with premature gray, and a bare spot at the crown is not 
the tonsure, which in the mission is not worn, but the commence- 
ment of baldness. Two of his young assistants are noiselessly en- 
gaged in putting away the sacred vestments. There is a knock at 
the door which communicates with the church. One of the hoys 
opens it. A young lady — a young girl, one would say — is there. 
She desires to speak to Father Smith. The boy motions her to 
come in, and points her to a chair. She takes it, and gazes 
around timidly. The priest kneels on in his corner. In the other 
is a low screen, with a sort of grating in it, a kneeling-hoard in 
front, and a chair behind. There is perfect silence. Her heart 
sinks within her. She looks up for help. Her eye falls on a large 
crucifix fixed to the opposite wall, over a table. “ He died for 
me,” she thinks, “ died on a cross I Nothing shall prevent me 
from confessing His name !” 

At last. Father Smith rose. He saw the young girl, and ap- 
proached her with a look of inquiry. Mary rose, but she was 


166 


ALBAN. 


voiceless. She could not utter a word ; she knew not even what 
she wanted to say, and so she just looked down. The father 
glanced at her dark, plain hood and blanket-shawl, and the knit 
socks drawn over her shoes. 

“ You want to go to confession ? Very well — pointing to 
the confessional. The boys left the vestry, and Father Smith 
was going to put on his stole. 

“ No, sir, I do not want to confess,” said Mary, in a choking 
voice, and trembling from head to foot. 

“ What then do you want, my dear child !” rejoined the priest, 
with some surprise, and some quickness. “ My time is precious, 
but if I can be of any assistance to you, speak. If you have any 
thing on your mind, you had better go to confession at once.” 

“ I wish to be baptized, sir,” said Mary. 

“Ah!” The priest observed her more narrowly. She had 
broken the ice, and now looked up courageously. “ You are a 
Protestant ?” asked he, gently. 

“ Not now,” said Mary. » . 

“ Sit down. How long is it since you came to this rcsolu-/ 
tion ?” 


This morning, sir.” 


“ Ah, at mass, I suppose. God is very good. But your 
friends — they know nothing about it. Are your parents living ?” 

“ My father is living. My mother was a Catholic, sir.” 

“ God is very good !” said the father, with an upward glance. 
“ But have you never been baptized at all ?” 

“ Never.” 

“ Is your father in humble circumstances ? Has he any re- 
ligious belief ? Do you live in New Haven ?” \ 

“ We live in New York, sir. My father is a Unitarian '*< He 
is not poor,” said Mary. 

“ I think that you must be careful not to act precipitately. 
You must consult your father, and you will yourself need to be in- 
structed, probably, in our holy faith. If God has really touched 
your heart with His grace, a short trial will only make your 


ALBAN. 


167 


faith more firm and pure. What Catholic books have you 
read ?” 

Mary handed him the little “ Journee du Chretien.” He 
glanced at it. “ Is this all ?” he asked, with a smile. “ Well, 
it is enough. God’s grace can employ the feeblest instruments. 
But you will certainly need instruction. And I don’t know who 
will instruct you. Where are you staying ? At Mr. Everett’s. 
Oh, I understand. Is there a Catholic servant in the family ? 
Ask her to lend you her catechism. You need no better prayer- 
book than this.for the present. It will be a month before I shall 
be here again, for I have other stations to serve.” 

“ A month. Father Smith ! Oh, I cannot wait a month.” 

“ Oh, yes, you can. It will soon pass. If your faith continue 
firm, and your desire of baptism is sincere, your soul will be in no 
danger from the delay. You must write to your father ; and, 
meanwhile I would say as little as possible to others. Do not 
commit yourself. It is not necessary. Pray a great deal, and 
particularly make the act of faith every night and morning with 
fervor and attention. Now go, my dear child. God has been 
very merciful to you. You can never love Him enough in 
return.” 

Mary De Groot dropped on one knee. Father Smith blessed 
her, and bid her be of good cheer. She went out joyfully ; 
Bridget had waited and wondered in the church. 

The good people of New Haven, and the student community 
of Yale College, passed their Christmas morning in a very different 
way. * The Episcopal churches had been ^rowded on the eve, but 
the morning congregations, partly on account of the weather, were 
thin. The students lamented that the holiday w’as thrown away 
on a storm. Smoking, card-playing with locked doors, and kin- 
dred amusements, filled up the time of many. Reading novels, 
lounging in each others’ rooms, and all sorts of corrupt conversa- 
tion, occupied others. The ambitious “ studied,” as the American 
phrase is, i. e., read hard. The Professors and Tutors had a day 
for their private use, unbrokea by lecture or recitation. The 


168 


ALBAN. 


Professor of Chemistry shut himself up in his laboratory ; the Pro- 
fessor of Natural Philosophy pursued his experiments on the 
construction of stoves ; the Rev. President corrected his last 
mathematical text-book, and the Divinity Professor recreated him- 
self with a novel. Among the five hundred and more members 
of the University, there were probably not above five and twenty 
who went to church on Christmas morning, in the year 1834. 

Among the five and twenty was our friend Alban. He had 
indeed two invitations, one from Mr. Soapstone, to hear his sermon ; 
one from Miss Ellsworth, to sit in her father’s pew ; and the latter 
he accepted. It was in Trinity. There was something exceed- 
ingly comfortable and old-country-like in the whole thing, that 
pleased Alban, and reminded him of Washington Irvfing’s beauti- 
ful descriptions of English Christmas. There was no iieAV-fangled 
“ Catholicism” in the arrangements at Trinity, no Puseyite inno- 
vation, as people would now say : no candles, no crosses, no shams 
of any sort. It was an old-fashioned church, dressed for the cheer- 
ful festival in an old-fashioned way. A young deacon read the 
prayers in a very graceful manner, and the excellent rector 
preached an old-fashioned sermon, in which he clearly proved to 
his hearers from the Scriptures, the Divinity of Him whom he 
called the great Founder of their religion. His text was the same 
as Father Smith’s, which was not a surprising coincidence, since 
the same gospel was read in the Communion. The English 
reformers in arranging their new service, took for Christmas Day 
the old gospel for the third mass in Nativitate Domini. In the 
well-cushioned pew of the Ellsworths, with Mary Ellsworth’s 
shot-silk dress rustling by his side, occasionally, her delicate, gloved 
hand pointing out the plaee, our hero was very well ofi'. There 
was literally nothing to disturb his enjoyment. There were no low 
people near at all events, to pollute the air with their breath, and 
with the peculiar odor that emanates from the unchanged gar- 
ments of the poor. The sweet breath of Mary Ellsworth, with a 
fine fragrance of cologne from her clothes, was all that mingled 
with the fresh smell of the spruce, cedar, and balsamic pine that 


ALBAN . 


• 169 


drooped in deep festoons along the gallery. The Brussels carpet 
under his feet harbored none of the small hut active gentry from 
whose persecutions poor Mary De Groot suffered all day. 

Alban was engaged to dine with the Ellsworths, and when 
service was over accepted a seat in their sleigh. It was still by 
the beautiful- daughter’s side. They were going directly to dinner, 
for the communion had made it late, as Mr. Ellsworth remarked. 

“ How fatiguing it must be for the clergy to have so large a 
communion,” observed Mrs. Ellsworth with matronly considera- 
tion. 

“ Particularly if they were fasting, as Mr. Soapstone says they 
ought to be,” said Alban, smiling. 

“ Mr. Soapstone is a — most preposterous young man,” said Mr. 
Ellsworth. 

“ Did Mr. Soapstone fast this morning ?” asked Mary Ellsworth, 
answering Alban’s smile. 

“ Why not exactly. But he explained to me at breakfast, that 
in the present anomalous position of the Church the rule could not 
be strictly followed ; and he really did not think he could get 
through the whole service alone on an empty stomach.” 

“ I wonder he should think of it,” said kind Mrs. Ellsworth, 
while her husband laughed bitterly and Miss Ellsworth gayly. 
The sleigh swept rouird a corner, dashing between two girls who 
were crossing the street, and in a moment the bells ceased jingling 
at Mr. Ellsworth’s gate. 

The rector and the deacon were among the Ellsworths’ 
Christmas guests. Wine flowed ; the Church was lauded ; the 
denominations received many mortal thrusts. Even the poor 
Papists did not wholly escape. The cross and candles at Mr. 
Soapstone’s chapel were canvassed and condemned. After dinner, 
round the dining-room fire, the gentlemen filled up an hour and a 
half or so, with smoking, politics, and anecdotes of rather dubious' 
edification. Tea and coffee and the ladies succeeded, and the 
evening of games and music, dancing, laughter, and mulled wine. 
Alban was Mary Ellsworth’s partner in the games and in the 

16 . 


170 ' 


ALBAN. 


cotillion, and his hand trembled when it touched hers in bidding 
her good-night. . * * 

The Everetts’ dinner company was naturally of a different cast, 

Professor S , P , the poet, several ladies of a somewhat 

literary and scientific turn, and a young Marylander of the Senior 
class, who was a connection. The beautiful maid of sixteen was 
silent at dinner as a rose in a vase ; but in the evening she sang 
like a Virginia nightingale in an aviary. Young Carroll got beside 
her after some manoeuvring, and she blushed as she asked him if 
there was not a cathedral in Baltimore. 

“ Of course. Miss Mary, since it is the see of an archbishop. 
You should visit Baltimore, Miss De Groot. You would form a 
very different idea of Catholics from what you get in the North. 
The best families in Maryland are Catholics.” 

“ Are they I’cally ? The faith is the same as that of the Cath- 
olics here, is it not ?” 

“ Certainly — oh, certainly, the faith is the same. But we 
fancy that we are a little more refined than the low Irish you see 
here.” 

“ Of course you did not go to mass this morning among all the 
low Irish ?” said Mary. 

“ Oh, indeed, you are very severe. Miss De Groot. Of course 
I went to mass — at five o’clock. Some of us sung Christmas carols 
under your windows at midnight, and we staid up for mass, I 
assure you; — at least O’Connor and I did.” 

“ But at half-past ten ?” persisted Miss De Groot. 

“ Why to tell the truth, at half-past ten I went to the Episcopal 
churches, first to one and then to the other, in the hope of seeing 
you. Miss Mary ; not for the service, I assure you. But I suppose 
you found the weather too unpleasant to go out.” 

“ A pretty way of spending your Christmas morning, Mr. 
Carroll ! Is that your Maryland refinement ? Would your Catho- 
lic friends in Baltimore approve of your turning your back on High 
Mass at the cathedral, and ranging from one Protestant church to 
another in quest of an heretical young lady ?” She glowed all 


■i 


ALBAN . 


171 


over, brow, cheek, and neck. “ I don’t take it as a compliment 
that I was the person you sought, if indeed I was. I was at, the 
third mass, Mr. Carroll, and I can tell you that I think Protestants 
excusable in the vile things they say, because they are'ignorant, 
and know no better, but not a Catholic who knows what the 
mass is and neglects it.” , . , 

Young Carroll, who was really a good fellow and a thorough 
gentleman, had great difficulty in making his peace. He insisted 
strongly on his having satisfied the precept of the Church by 
hearing one mass, that he was not obliged to hear another, and 
that he went to the Protestant service (he urged that) purely to 
see her. He had not taken, nor would he take on any account 
the least part in their worship, so much as in thought. Nay, to 
feel the slightest devotion in a Protestant church would be a moral 
impossibility for him. Mary was silent while he related the his- 
tory of several attempts to convert him since he had been at New 
Haven. It was very amusing, for out of pure contempt, the easy 
Marylander had let himself be argued with, and plied with books 
to almost any extent, just giving encouragement enough to draw 
on the zealous proselyters who desired to save him from the scarlet 
lady. 

“ But I knew,” said the young planter, M'ith gentle animation, 
“ that if I had been blown into ten thousand atoms, the faith 
would have been found entire in every separate fragment.” 

“ That’s the best thing you have said yet, Mr. Carroll,” said 
Mary. 

Professor S , with the instinct that shrewd Protestants 

have in regard to the danger of conversing with Catholics about 
their religion, yet influenced by that uneasiness which leads them 
always to attack it, interposed and asked Carroll some questions 
in a calm tone of superiority. 

“ What is the reason, Mr. Carroll, since the Pope possesses the 
whole treasure of indulgences, that he does not apply it at once 
to let all the souls out of purgatory ? Why does he demand to be 
paid for each one separately ?” 

^ . 


172 


ALBAN, 


Because he possesses no such power,” replied Carroll, with 
the greatest good humor. 

“ What, the Pope cannot let as many souls out of purgatory as 
he pleases ?” 

“ Decidedly not, or it would he very cruel in him not to do 
it. You don’t seem to know. Professor, what the doctrine of the 
t Church is on the subject of indulgences.” 

“ Pray enlighten my Protestant ignorance, Mr. Carroll.” 

“ An indulgence as applied to the souls in purgatory, sir, is 
only an application of the merits of Christ and the saints in their 
behalf in the way of a prayer to God. The Church has no juris- 
diction over the dead, sir, and the Pope can no more release a 
soul out of purgatory by any direct act of authority than you or I 
can.” 

“ That I believe,” said the Professor, sarcastically. “ You 
only think, then, that the Pope can pray people out of purgatory, 
not that he can open the door with his big keys ?” 

“ Certainly,” said Carroll, “ we believe that there is a purga- 
tory, and that the prayers of the living are useful to those who 
are detained there : both very consoling truths to poor sinners like 
me, though not to saints like you. Professor, who will of course go 
straight to heaven when you shake off this mortal coil.” 

Mary De Groot laughed, and whispered to Carroll that she 
was glad he had the courage to defend his religion so manfully. 

“ I cannot want that,” replied the young Marylander, coloring 
and smiling, “ while I am true to the grace of confirmation. I am 
sorry to say that I don’t practise my religion so well as I might, 
but I should have courage to die for it, if necessary.” 

After the mulled wine had been duly honored. Miss De Groot 
returned young Carroll’s good-night with abrupt cordiality. She 
drew back coyly indeed from the hand which he extended with 
Southern frankness, and made him a deep curtsey instead of taking 
it, but she gave him one look in saying bon soir, that was winged 
with girlish admiration, due partly to his great personal advan- 
tages, partly to his manliness and spirit. 


ALBAN. 


173 


“ We must not have Charles Carroll here too often, Mary, or 
he will convert you to Popery,” said Miss Everett, laughing, when 
the guests were gone. 

‘‘ Not he,” replied the young girl with a hlush at her own 
evasion. But hold as she was, she dared not confess herself a 
convert to the Church of Rome. 

15 » t 

1 ■ 




174 


ALBAN. 


• ' 


» CHAPTER XVII. 

In addition to the profound religious questions which now interested*' 
him, and the novel excitement of mature female society, our hero 
was at this time almost overwhelmed with the perplexity and 
trials of authorship. He had imagined that to write his tragedy 
was all he had to do ; he was not prepared for the far more diffi- 
cult business of getting it up. Distributing the parts, inciting the 
industry and jcorrecting the dull misapprehensions of some actors, 
repressing the vivacity and self-will of others, superintending the 
rehearsal, all were new, and tiresome enough. He became heart- 
ily sick of his own work, and anticipated nothing less than a 
total failure on the night of performance. He never thought of 
the time as drawing inevitably near without a sickness at heart. 
The only hope he had, was, that his new female friends would be 
prevented from attending the Exhibition to witness his exposure. 
The last rehearsal, in the presence of a chosen few, somewhat 
encouraged him. His friends, indeed, pointed out to him several 
faults in his play — an excess of plot, over-refinement in the sen- 
timents, and occasionally too great plainness of language — an un- 
sophistie'ated, unveiled expression of love, which they thought 
required to^e softened so as not to offend the delieacy of the fair 
audience before whom the Exhibition was to be repeated. Alban 
said it was too late to correct these faults, but he had no doubt 
that his critics were entirely in the right. He confessed that he 
was very inexperienced, and he wished a thousand times that he 
had had his fingers cut off before he attempted to write that 
unlucky tragedy. He proposed that the Exhibition should not be 
repeated, and was but slightly consoled when his principal confi- 
dant assured him that in a first effort much would be forgiven. 

At length the night of the Exhibition arrived. Alban presided 
in his chair of state ; the Society’s room had been converted into 


ALBAN . 


175 


a simple but convenient theatre. Every sitting or standing was 
occupied. The crowd was suffocating. TIiq tragedy was highly 
successful, and Alban observed, to his surprise, that the points 
whicdi had been so severely criticised by his friends in private, 
• were precisely those which elicited from the full theatre its live- 
■•liest applause. It was voted a brilliant thing, and wonderfully 
- more spirited, more racy, than could have been expected from so 
serious a fellow as Atherton. His own friends said that the sur- 
prise occasioned by this contrast between the author’s well-known 
character and the impassioned dialogue of his work, was the secret 
of the success which it obtained before the student assernblage. 
There was some truth in the remark, for nothing else was so much 
talked of*- as this novel feature in a performance' of Atherton’s. 
The exjyerimentum crucis remained, however, yet to be made, in 
^ the presence of nearly two hundred young ladies. 

It was a brilliant coup d'ccil, the theatre on the second night, 
at the rising of the curtain : — row rising on row of lovely faces on 
a background mostly of white muslin, mingled occasionally with 
richer fabrics, but all festive, while a framework of dark manly 
costume, varied with white waistcoats, inclosed the whole on the 
sides and rear. The President’s seat of dignity commanded a view 
of both the stage and the audience. In front of his chair three 
seats were reserved in the middle of a settee for Miss Ellsworth, 
Miss Everett, and Miss De Groot. The first arrived early, looking 
very beautiful in her low cut dress and finely-drooping shoulders. 
Miss Everett and her youthful guest came just as the curtain rose. 
For various reasons they were sure to attract attention, which 
their being late increased. Miss De Groot’s color rose as she made 
her way with some difficulty to the place reserved for her. She 
got seated at last, and looked towards the stage, while Miss Ells- 
worth, whispering “ How late you are !” glanced at the dress of 
the rival belle. An oration and a poem were to be delivered 
before the commencement of the dramatic performances, and the 
orator was already in the full tide of declamation. 

The title of the tragedy on the printed bill of the exercises, 


176 


ALBAN. 


was “ The Fall of the Inca an American subject, but admitting 
the richest European costume of a romantic age. The ^heroine 
was the Princess of Peru. As the female parts were necessarily 
performed by young men, this idea presented great means of effect. 
The Princess was enacted by a Louisianian, a handsome, dark boy 
of sixteen, and a Calliopean. His sex was a positive advantage, 
by warranting that strictness of savage costume which otherwise 
would not have been allowable. Young Badeau, of mixed French 
and Indian ancestry, wore in front his own straight black hair, 
femininely parted, and rendered with infinite spirit the wild pas- 
sion of the Inca’s daughter. The part of Pizarro was played by a 
young man of dissipated tendencies, but great histrionic talent, 
who subsequently went on the stage. The lover of the piece was 
also a capital actor, noAV an eminent evangelical clergjunan in the 
Episcopal Church. The play, therefore, was well cast. But we. 
must not forget the Inca himself A pious classmate of Alban’s, 
whom no one would have suspected of such a talent, and at whose 
name most smiled when it was announced, a candidate for the 
Congregational ministry, in fact, and a man past thirty, personated 
the Indian Sovereign — the Child of the.Sun — with admirable suc- 
cess. Alban’s heart went beating triple time during the whole 
representation. The last two acts were of thrilling interest ; the 
incidents exciting. They passed rapidly amid breathless attention, 
and received, at the close of the scenes, the meed of soft plaudits, 
not unmiiigled with sighs and blushes. The death x)f the Inca 
was wonderfully well managed, and when the Princess swooned 
on the body of her lover, one of the young ladies, who had never 
seen a play before, fainted, and had to be carried out. This real 
incident added to the eclat, and the curtain fell amid enthusiastic 
applause. Black waiters now brought in ice-cream and other re- 
freshments for the ladies, and the President, quitting his chair of 
state, tremblingly approached his fair friends. They welcomed 
him with all their hands. 

It does not boot to relate all the flattering things they said. 
Miss Everett, however, fought shy of a topic on which Miss Ells- 


ALBAN . 


177 


worth rallied him, namely, the impassioned love-scenes. Whence 
had he drawn his knowledge of ladies’ hearts and ladies’ ways ? 
His Indian princess was a true woman, and Miss Ellsworth 
appealed to Miss De Groot. Mary had risen for a change of 
position and was regarding Alban as if in a revery. She started 
at Miss Ellsworth’s question, made her repeat it, and answered 
with a blush, 

“ I thought the princess a little too forward, — but then I never 
saw a play before.” 

“ That was meant to be a part of her character as a princess 
accustomed to boundless submission and indulgence,” observed 
Alban. 

“ Oh, it seemed to me all very real, so much so that it made 
me quite — ” she hesitated. — “ Christian delicacy does not grow 
wild in a woman’s heart, of course, Mr. Alban. I think that you 
have painted what we are by nature very truly.” 

Her face glowed, ard it was impossible not to be struck with 
its cherubinical intelligence brought out by the novel excitement. 
Mary Ellsworth abruptly drew attention to her friend’s dress. 

“ You have departed from your ordinary simplicity in honor of 
the occasion, Mary. Mr. Alban ought to appreciate the compli- 
ment. I wonder you have never worn that lovely pink satin before. 
You should make her always dress as becomingly. Miss Everett.” 

Miss De Groot was in fact arrayed with an unusual care. Her 
hair was relieved by a slender gold band, over. which its dark 
thick waves seeme struggling to rise. She laughed girlishly at 
he. dress being noticed, and -said something awkwardly about 
having out-grown all her dresses since she came to New Haven, 
and then the beautiful eyelids drooped. 

“ What a child she is after all,” thought the President of the 
Brothers’ Society, and turned to Miss Ellsworth. 

The comedy produced much merriment. The principal char- 
acter was a raw New England farmer. The wit was not very 
reiined, but the truthfulness of the representation in respect to ac- 
cent and dialect, and the reckless fun of the preposterous incidents 


178 


ALBAN. 


rendered it irresistible. Every body laughed. Mary De Groot 
laughed till she cried, and Miss Everett nearly ruptured a blood- 
vessel in the vain attempt to preserve her dignity. Mary De 
Groot’s uncontrollable convulsion sunk her again in the grave 
estimate of Mr. Alban, vv^hile Miss Ellsworth proportionably rose 
in virtue of the expressions of disgust wherewith she avenged her- 
self for an occasional surprise. 

The performance was not concluded till nearly two o’clock. 

Miss Everett and Mary waited for the crush to be over, 
and Alban, as their inviter, kept near them. 

^ “Are you going home for the vacation, Mr. Alban ?” 

, He had thought to spend it at New Haven. The Sound was 
not pleasant at this season ; there was sometimes danger from the 
accumulation of ice ; and it was his last winter vacation. 

“ But I should think it would do you good to get away from 
New Haven for a fortnight.” 

Here Miss Ellsworth elbowed her way out of the cloak-room 
and approached, all muffled, to take leave of the President. 

“ We shall expect to see you every day in the vacation, Mr. 
Atherton.” 

Alban thanked her, shook hands, and bade her good-night 
with a gratified and admiring air. Following with his eye her 
receding figure, and watching her gracefully take up her dress to 
descend the carpetless stairs, he forgot Miss De Groot, until the 
latter appeared in her snowy capuchin, and with the pink satin 
carefully gathered up. 

“ And I must say ‘ good-by,’ I suppose, Mr. Alban.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ I am going home on Monday — to New York.” 

Accompanying them down the stair, he learned that this was 
[jettled. Miss De Groot having only waited for the Exhibition. 
^She had written to her father that very day to meet her at the 
wharf on Monday evening. 

“ The idea of her going home alone on that frightful Sound,” 
said Miss Everett. 


12 


ALBAN. 


179 




“ I wish you were going down for the vacation, Mr. Alban,” 
said Miss De Groot. “ Why can’t you change your mind, and be 
my escort ?” she added, in a sportive girlish manner. 

“ With the greatest pleasure,” answered Alban, gallantly. 

“ Will you, really ? Oh ! you are only in jest, Mr. Alban. 
New Haven has too many attractions for you to leave it.” 

“ It loses one of its greatest in losing Miss De Groot, who does 
not think me capable, I hope, of accepting such ^an invitation in 
jest. After all, my mother would be disappointed not to see me 
this vacation.” 

“ Ah, Mr. Alban, if you have a mother who expects you, I 
shall do a good turn by persuading you to spend your vacation iir 
New York. You can get permission to go on Monday, I sup- 
pose ?” 

“ The vacation does not begin till Wednesday, but there will 
be no difficulty about that,” said Alban, half feeling that he 
might get off on this score, if he chose, and he thought of spending 
the evenings at Miss Ellsworth’s, around a table for games, with 
all the too agreeable incidents sure to follow ; nor did he not re- 
member the morning tcte-d-tetes which he might hope so much 
more frequently to enjoy. But Miss Everett took up his offer, and 
observed, that if Mr. Atherton were really going down for the 
vacation, it would be quite a relief to her mind. Atherton prom- 
ised to call at the Grove on the morrow and complete the arrange- 
ment ; Miss De Groot thereupon expressed her satisfaction 
without any disguise, and the sleigh glided away with its jingle 
and slide. 

“ These rich and pi’oud people seem really to make use of one,” 
thought Alban. “ It is rather selfish in Miss Mary to make me 
quit New Haven to wait upon her on the steamboat. Still, she 
is a young lady, whom, for what I have seen of her, I sincerely 
respect.” 


180 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

The day after an exhibition, men sleep over and get marked 
by the monitors ; hut Atherton, having a favor to ask, was in 
his place at the head of the Seniors, (being A. A.,) just as the 
chapel-bell ceased tolling, and Henry Atherton, who was Senior 
monitor, and never failed to note his cousin and room-mate’s ab- 
sences with rigid impartiality, smiled gravely as he rose and took 
out his chapel book. Our hero was at the President’s lecture and 
got the permission he required, the good Doctor observing that 
Atherton had been hard worked this term ; but indeed Alban 
was never refused any thing. It was the only thing which in- 
jured his general popularity, that he was such a favorite with the 
“dons.” He made his arrangements then in the afternoon, and 
in the evening called at the Grove agreeably to his promise. 

The small, lofty drawing-room, looked cheerfully manorial 
with its high mahogany doors, crimson satin window curtains 
drawn, blazing ^rate, pictured walls, and open piano. Alban 
had seen so little of Miss De Groot that he did notice she had 
groM^u since he first saw her at the fair. ' 

She declined an invitation to attend the College Chapel the 
next day, but offered to take a walk with Mr. Alban in the after- 
noon, if he would call at the Grove. She strove, it was eyident, 
to make -herself agreeable to him. She went to the piano and 
played. Mary was one of those gifted individuals who play by 
ear and catch a piece the first time they hear it. Doubtless her 
refined musical organization was connected with that quickness 
of temper which we have noticed. Her voice was neither con- 
tralto nor soprano ; but soft in the lower register, bird-like in the 
higher. As she sung, her w'ell-formed chest played freely in its 
easy vesture. It was curious, though, how quietly she sat on the 
music-stool — like a child. Miss De Groot paid so much respect 


ALBAN. 


181 


to the vicinity of the Sabbath as to play only sacred music. She 
performed admirably the Kyrie which she had heard at mass. 

Alban’s ear was pleased, but he was so uncultivated that he 
knew not whether what he had heard was very good or not ; so 
he was silent. 

Mary began some grave and solemn unisons — a sublime Dorian 
chant. She added words as before. It was the Preface of the 
Nativity. 

“ What kind of music is that ?” asked Alban, with emotion, 
when the strain abruptly closed. 

“ You feel that, do you ? It is the intonation of a part of the 
mass,” said Mary, in a low voice. “ And this is more of it.” 
She toned off the Pater iwster, with one hand, singing the words. 

“ Mary spends her Sunday mornings singing mass,” observed 
>Miss Everett. 

“ Not exactly,” said Miss De Groot, bending over the piano. 

“ You must take care how your father hears you amusing 
yourself in that way,” continued Miss Everett. 

“ Trust me for that,” replied the young girl quickly, and turn- 
ing merely her head towards the speaker. 

“ Ever since Mr. Carroll dined here on Christmas Day, Miss 
De Groot has done nothing but read Catholic prayer-books, and 
sing Catholic hymns,” said Mr. Everett, with a smile and shrug 

“I won’t play another note after that,” cried the young lady, 
springing from the piano with her wonted crimson flush when 
touched. And dropping upon a low seat by the centre-table, and 
resuming some light work, she added with a spirited toss of the 
beautiful head, “ I assure you, Mr. Alban, that Mr. Carroll has 
nothing to do with my Catholic reading or music, — at least — ” she 
added, — “nothing in the way of personal influence.” 

“ If you were not so strict about truth, I should say that was 
a fib,” thought Alban ; but he merely observed that Carroll was a 
favorite with the ladies, whereat Miss De Groot colored still 
more, and he inferred that whether conscious of it or not, she was 
no exception ; but that opinion he was wise enough to keep to 
' 16 


182 


ALBAN . 


himself. After all it did not interest him greatly, and soon after 
he took leave, reminding her that he should call the next day alter 
evening chapel. 

The Sunday afternoon walk was pleasant. While the path 
lay through the wood, as it did at first, they were obliged to go in 
Indian file ; but as soon as they gained the open road, they walked 
abreast in the double furrow worn by the sleighs, with a little 
mound of snow running between. They walked fast. Mary 
brushed the snow with her short dark green merino. Sometimes 
they had to turn out for a sleigh, and the people, as they flew by, 
gave them looks of curiosity. The sun cast a red, setting light on 
the woods, precipitous clilTs, and snowy back slopes of East Rock. 
Nearly three miles out they approached a picturesque half- frozen 
mill-stream. ' 

“ Beautiful New Haven !” exclaimed Mary De Groot. 

“ And yet you run away from it,” said Alban; “ very unneces- 
sarily, as I gather from Miss Everett.” 

“ Are you sorry to feel yourself under a chivalrous obligation 
of being my escort ?” 

“ Nay,” said Alban, “ I must return in a fortnight, you know, 
and then I shall not find you here.” 

“ But you will find Mary Ellsworth. You have not been such 
a daily visitor at the Grove as to miss me much.” 

“ I have been somewhat neglectful of you. Miss Mary, I con- 
fess, but you know how busy I have been with my tragedy.” 

“ Oh ! I don’t complain. A little school-girl like me (for I 
have had masters every day, you know) has no pretensions to re- 
ceive visitors like Miss Ellsworth. It would have interfered witn 
my lessons too much. That is one reason why I had to excuse 
myself from seeing Mr. St. Clair so often as he called. I do not 
like a great many gentlemen friends like Miss Ellsworth. But 
apart from your tragedy, Mr. Alban, it is evident that if you call 
almost every evening or morning on one young lady, you cannot 
see much of any other, unless you give up your whole time to 
visiting. How often in a week were you at the Ellsworths ?” 


ALBAN. 


183 


“ Seldom more than twice, really,” said Alban, blushing a 
little under this frank catechising. 

• ” Ah ! twice too often,” exclaimed Miss De Groot, with quick- 
ness. 

“ Well, why so, Miss Mary ?” said Alban, reddening still more. 

“ Why, Mr. Alban, distinguished as you are in your class, you 
can’t be seriously ‘paying attention,’ as the girls say,’to a young 
lady like Miss Ellsworth, a couple of years older than yourself. 
And you can’t have the vanity to suppose that courted as she is, 
she is going to think seriously of you, much as she may like you 
and admire your talents. I am a mere chit ; I have no experience 
in such matters ; but an instinct warns me that you are betraying 
your owm dignity.” 

Our hero looked sheepish. 

“ Mary tells, and laughs at, the compliments and soft things 
you say to her,” pursued Miss De Groot, with girlish malice. “ I 
myself believe that if the truth was, known, she gives you in pri- 
vate plenty of encouragement. Now that is treating you shame- 
fully. I would never do so. If it were me you admired, I should 
keep it to myself, and if I showed the least sign of particular re- 
gard for you then, it would — mean a great deal, Mr. Alban.” 

“ Many thanks for your honest revelations. Miss De Groot.” 

“ I hope I have not offended you.” 

“ Not the least.” 

“ And now I must tell you what brought me to New Haven, 
and what takes me away,” continued Miss De Groot, diverting his 
attention to another subject. “ You must know, Mr. Alban, that 
I have a stepmother. She is not unkind to me, but you are aware 
that my temper is infirm. Mamma used to trj’^ it. She is a bigoted 
adherent of the religious views in which you have been educated, 
and she used to reflect very severely (no doubt she thought it her 
duty) on papa’s sentiments, in which, as you know, I have been 
brought up, while (I really could not bear that) she called my 
oAvn mother an idolater. Mamma and I quarrelled, in short, and 
papa took my part. Then I begged to be sent to school or any 


184 


ALBAN . 


where, and papa, finding it was necessary, consented to my passing 
the winter with the Everetts, who are distant relatives. Now 
for why I am going back. It is partly because I have learned 
lately from a good source that it is best not to shun such trials, 
but to learn humility and patience by taking them as they come, 
even if one has the mortification of often displaying one’s weakness. 
So I am going home to be a better girl if I can, and to bear the 
disgrace of being a bad one, if I can’t.” 

Our hero was gratified to be the depositary of such a confidence ; 
at the same time that there was a force of will, and an independent 
clearness of thought in this young girl, which prevented him from 
feeling any thing like sentiment in her regard. 

“ May I ask a question. Miss Mary ?” 

“ Fifty. I shall use my discretion about answering, Mr. Alban.” 

» “ Your music last night suggests it. Is your mind turning to 

your mother’s faith ?” 

“ It is the only true religion,” said Mary. 

“ Really ! have you got so far already !” 

“ I am indebted, to you, Mr. Alban, for the first word, as far as 
I know, that prepared me to believe in the Divinity of my Saviour ; 
and that, I beheve, includes every thing.” 

“ It may be that you are right there,” observed Alban, re- 
garding her with interest and surprise. “ A Church founded by an 
inearnate God ought to be infallible, particularly as He promised it 
perpetual inspiration, a fact of wliich I am surprised that Protest- 
ants take no notice. If Christ was divine. His Church ought to 
be the pillar and ground of Truth.” 

“ What a little way you are from the truth, Mr. Alban ! I 
am SM?’e you will come to it,” said she, earnestly. 

“ Well, I shall not be guilty of assailing a young lady’s reli- 
gious convictions, if I &a.y now," replied Alban, “ that my difficulty 
about Christianity for some time past has been, that if it be true. 
Popery follows. No intermediate ground is strong enough to bear 
the weight of a God-man.” 

“That’s it, Mr. AlbanJ” 


~4 


ALBAN. 185 

They mounted the stile which marked the boundary of Mr. 
Everett’s domain. Again they passed in Indian file along the 
woodland snow-path, the young maiden leading the way. When 
they came in sight of the house a covered stage-sleigh was driving 
out of the avenue. 

“ An arrival !” exclaimed Miss De Groot, with a tell-tale 
blush. 

Alban went in with her of course. A portmanteau stood 
in the hall. 

“ Papa !” she exclaimed. “ I thought so,” 

16 * 


186 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Alban had a vague idea that the father of Miss De Groot was 
the representative of a race of manorial proprietors on the North 
River ; that he was also the owner of an old farm residence on 
New York Island, on the ponds of whose domain he had skated as 
a boy. He remembered at that period a large house at the lower 
end of Green wich-street which bore such a name on the door- 
plate ; and far, far back among his dimmest recollections of the 
time when his father lived in State-street, and he went to a 
woman’s school, appeared the image of a little girl with dark 
ringlets, and a passionate temper, for whom, on rainy days, a car- 
riage was sent, or, when it snowed, a buffalo-robed sleigh, to con- 
vey her the distance of two or three squares which intervened 
between the aforesaid mansion and Madam ’s. These remi- 

niscences assumed really for the first time a definite conscious ex- 
istence in his mind when his eye rested on the figure of Mr. De 
Groot in the Everetts’ drawing-room. It was a form, face, and 
even a garb, familiar to the young New Yorker in days gone by. 

Mary’s father was a man above the middle height, having a 
spare but well-knit frame, slightly stooping, and a classic head. 
His dark brown hair, cut short and curling massively, his splendid 
brown eyes, and largely moulded, but regular features, combined 
to form a commanding, and, at the same time, attractive physiog- 
nomy. He was dressed in an obsolete fashion : a blue, gilt-but- 
toned coat and buff waistcoat, a frilled shirt and white cravat. 
Between him and his daughter existed, besides some other varia- 
tions, the inefi'able difference of sex and youth. 

Their meeting was tender without being very demonstrative. 
Mary introduced Alban with a slight embarrassment and yet with 
perfect openness. 

“ Mr. Alban Atherton of the Senior class, papa. Mr. At^er- 


ALBAN. 


187 


ton had kindly offered to take charge of me, sir, on the boat to- 
morrow. And so yon came in an extra from New York to take 
care of your little girl yourself” 

“Not so little,” said her father. “You have grown, Mary. 
Mr. Atherton is very kind, though, as you say, and I am much 
obliged to him.” 

Alban was about to withdraw, but the Everetts politely urged 
him to stay for tea ; Mary warmly, although with a rising color, 
seconded the invitation, and her father, at whom he involuntarily 
glanced, said, bending his rich brows, and speaking in a rich 
voice, “ Stay, Mr. Atherton.” 

They sat round the table for the Sunday tea, and there was a 
beef-steak for Mr. De Groot, who had arrived hungry. He par- 
took of it sparingly, but drank many cups of weak black tea, 
conversing the while in a very agreeable way with his hosts. At 
length he turned to our hero, and asked him a quiet question 
touching the new religious theories which had been promulgated 
at New Haven. 

“ The point of the new school,” said Alban, in an explanatory 
way, which he judged level to the apprehension of a Dutch Uni- 
tarian, “ is to get rid of the mysteriousness which has hitherto 
attached to the doctrine of original sin, and the new birth, and the 
influence of the Spirit in regeneration, and make it all plain to 
our understandings.” 

“ And how is that done, may I ask ?” said Mr. De Groot, 
gravely, while his daughter slightly reddened. 

“ Oh, in the neatest manner,” replied the student. “ Original 
sin is explained thus. The will being as the strongest motive, 
unhappily the motives which are first presented to the youthful 
stranger arrived in this world are such as to compel him to choose 
what the law of God forbids. The New Birth is the turning of 
the will from these forbidden objects to the service of God ; and 
the agency by which the will is thus turned about, is the presen- 
tation of the motives to obedience in so strong a light by the 
Spirit, that holiness is necessarily the resulting choice.” 


188 


ALBAN. 


“ The thought of New England,” said Mr. De Groot, when 
Alban had finished, “ may be compared to mountain rills, some of 
which leap boldly over the precipitous face of high cliffs ; others 
follow gentle and sinuous declivities, but all unite in tbe common 
valley. The theory you so well state differs but verbally from 
that of Dr. Channing, which is, that man is a being who requires 
moral culture. The pure and earnest thinker will yet arise to 
teach all the different schools their inward identity. The old 
Church” — glancing at his daughter — “ had a true meaning when 
she asserted the Divinity of Christ ; and, indeed, the more purely 
we contemplate God in Christ, forgetting the mere man by whom 
Eternal Wisdom sought to instruct and elevate our race, the 
nearer shall we be to the soul — not of course to the mere dog- 
matic body — of the ancient Faith.” 

This style of speculation was new to our hero, and altogether 
he was somewhat taken by surprise. He was silent from modesty 
and admiration, but Mary De Groot replied to her father with 
feminine promptitude. 

“ How can I be near your soul, papa, by true sympathy, and 
your body not be precious to me too ? Suppose I were to love in 
you the father abstractedly, but regard Mr. Eugene De Groot as 
a common acquaintance.” 

The Everetts laughed. They did not relish Mr. De Groot’s 
pantheistic refinements. They hated the orthodox doctrine soul 
and body both. Mr. Everett said he never could believe TJuita- 
rianism and Trinitarianism to be at bottom the same doctrine, 

“ I do not say they are the same in form,” responded Mr. De 
Groot, “ but they exemplify the same spiritual impulse, that of 
finding God to be all, and all to be God,” and he looked at 
Alban. 

“ Then God is sin and error, papa. He is falsehood and hate. 
How dreadful !” exclaimed Mary, growing warm. 

“ Sin and error, falsehood and hate,” answered her father, 
with a calm smile, and in a rich triumphant intonation, “ are but 
the discords which are resolved into the harmony of God.** 


ALBAN. 


189 


“ Let God be true and every man a liar !” quoted Mary, 
shaking her cherubic head. “ Ah, my dear father !” 

“ Mary’s feeling is right,” returned her father, a little coldly. 
“ A right feeling is the strength of Trinitarianism. I own that 
those love most warmly who do not so clearly distinguish. The 
hottest rays of the spectrum do not coincide with the most 
luminous.” 

“ But the undivided ray of the sun both lights and warms,” 
answered Marj^ with surprising quickness. 

‘‘ Let us change the theme,” said Mr. De Groot. 

He did not change it much. Reverting to original sin, he 
ridiculed the idea of hereditaiy guilt in the creatures of the All- 
good. Then he dilated with eloquence on the sole necessity of an 
interior change in ourselves from the first selfishness of ignorance 
to the disinterested love of God and Man, in order to make us at 
one with the Just and True. Christ first had triumphed over 
selfishness and sensuality, and sacrificed all to that disinterested 
love ; and therefore was He said to have redeemed mankind : for 
in Him man was reconciled to God, i. e., had attained a divine 
disinterestedness, for it was man only who was reconciled to God 
in Christ, not God — the ever-benign — who was reconciled to 
man. His voice became full of vibration and sweet cadences as 
he proceeded. 

“ Paul was inspired, but what is inspiration ? In its highest 
expression you must look for a human element. Read your Bible 
on your bended knee, but read it not servilely. The great teacher 
of the Gentiles well explained the Mosaic records as symbolizing 
a spiritual system. The time has come to explain Paul, as he 
explained Moses. Inspiration is not, never can be, withdrawn 
from our race, no more than God Himself. But the inspired, 
who ever feel a sacred confidence in their own thoughts, are few. 
Time also must seal their prophecy ; time unfold it. The 
prophets are alwajs men of a remote age, and their writings are 
ancient. A Bible will take a millennium to compose ; another to 
be accepted.” 


15 


190 


ALBAN. 


“ You think, papa,” said Mary De Groot, between laughing 
and crying, “ that a thousand years hence you will pass for a 
prophet.” 

Mr. and Miss Everett were overawed by the melodious elo- 
quence of their guest. Mr. De Groot was, in fact, one of those 
splendid Unitarians whom their own circle nearly deified, and 
whose daring transcendentalism, although not accepted as sound 
by the body at large, composed for the most part of hard, literal 
thinkers, and controlled by a most New England materiality of 
conception, was nevertheless listened to by them all with some- 
thing of that reverence which the Orientals pay to the utterances 
of the insane. 

The Everetts were very urgent with Mr. De Groot to induce 
him to stay a few days at New Haven. His arrival had necessa- 
rily superseded the attendance of our hero upon his daughter ; 
but he inquired with courtesy if Mr. Atherton meant at all events 
to go down to New York on the morrow. Alban recalled his 
conversation with Miss De Groot respecting Mary Ellsworth, and 
promptly replied in the affirmative. 

“We shall go too,” said Mr. De Groot, quietly. “ The boat 
starts at six, I believe. Yo i are all ready for the journey, Mary ? 
And of course I am.” 


ALBAN . 


191 


CHAPTER XX. 

On Monday morning, while Alban was dressing by candle-light, 
Mr. Everett’s sleigh-barouche stopped at North College gate. 
Then he remembered that the arrangements made on Saturday 
had not been revoked. Mr. Everett’s servant came for his trunk. 
Alban was sensible of an extreme awkwardness in taking the 
vacant seat in the sleigh. It was too dark to discern the faces of 
his companions, and he fancied that their salutations were frigid. 

The engine of the Fanny was in full play when they reached 
the wharf, snorting like a racer, and churning the water behind 
the boat into a furious foam. Her cables creaked, and the foot- 
plank swayed to and fro with every stroke of the paddles. Mary 
attempting, like a giddy girl, to go on board alone, was nearly 
thrown off — would have been, but for Alban’s timely aid. It was 
so dark that no one saw it but themselves. Without withdrawing 
his arm from the waist it had clasped to save her, he guided her 
through the crowd of boat-hands and porters to the door of the 
ladies’ cabin. Mr. De Groot came on board with a grim aspect, 
wrapped in Russian furs. 

Mr. Everett followed with a courteous but formal air, to take 
leave of his lovely guest. The girl of sixteen, coyly bending 
under the swinging lamp of the ladies’ cabin, gave him the tips 
of her fingers and the sweetest smile. The bachelor of forty-five 
thawed before it. “ All aboard that’s going !” thundered the 
captain of the Fanny from the wheel-house.” Mr. Everett ran 
off like a man of five and twenty. 

The cables were slipped ; the Fanny moved past the wood- 
piled wharf. Soon they were in the icy bay ; then in the tossing 
Sound. By daybreak nothing could be seen above the horizon, 
even in the north, but a white land-streak, the snowy coast of 
Connecticut. 


192 


ALBAN. 


The Fanny felt the winter rocking of the Sound. Mr. De 
Groot’s dyspeptic stomach did not bear it too well. He was glad 
to leave his daughter and Alban at the steamboat breakfast- 
table. Even they broke their fast daintily, and were glad to get 
on deck again, where Atherton arranged a sheltered seat for Miss 
De Groot, while her father, with his furs almost hiding his face, 
lay near them on a bale of merchandise. The familiarizing in- 
fluence of travelling in company is proverbial, particularly under 
circumstances of bodily discomfort. The young people sat very 
near to each other by tacit mutual consent. Mary De Groot’s 
cloak of sables became a matter of contention between them. 
She, being very warmly clad, insisted on Alban, who was the re- 
verse, throwing it over his lap. They compromised by sharing it. 

“ Why, you have only that wretched, scanty, faded camlet, with 
such a queer velvet collar standing above your ears. I don’t mean 
to laugh at your student garb, Mr. Alban.” 

“ I thought my camlet was rather a fine thing when I got it — 
two years ago, ’tis true.” 

“ I can fancy it being fine for you two years ago. But now it 
is short, and has lost its color. You must get a real Spanish full 
circle of fine blue broadcloth, and a pelisse trimmed with furs.” 

“ I can’t afford such things,” replied the young man. “ And 
if I could, my father would think me stark mad to wear them.” ^ 

“ Would he really ? Now papa thinks nothing good enough 
for me. But I hate being dressed up like a doll. It is my pride» 

I suppose. Now that I am going home I shall take up with 
wearing my fine clothes — as an act of humility.” She laughed. 
“But, Mr. Alban, are you really skeptical?” 

“ It would be an affront to confess it to a young lady — ^unless 
to one like you, who, I fear, have too much faith.” 

“ I should take it as an affront, in general.” 

“ For the just reason that such an avowal by a young man is 
usually equivalent to a profession that he rejects the restraints of 
morality,” replied Alban. “ But that is not my case. What has 
destroyed my confidence in Christianity is precisely that it does not 


ALBAN. 


193 


keep' its promise of making me good and pure. I am as anxious 
as ever to be both.” 

Miss De Groot rose and went to her father to inquire how he 
did. 

“ No better,” was the laconic reply of the sick philosopher, 
without opening his eyes. 

"When the young lady returned, she insisted on her student- 
, friend’s taking the sable cloak to himself, declaring that it really 
oppressed her. Alban was warmer, but not so happy, as when 
the rich heavy garment lay over Mary De Groot’s knee as well as 
his own. The maiden probably minded the looks of the thing 
more than the reality, as there was always a little cabin-stool 
partly interposed between them, on the rounds of which she rested 
her feet. The acquaintance ripened hour by hour. One might 
suppose that the youth rapidly fell in love. But mystery is almost 
essential to excite the imagination at that age. Mary’s absence 
of disguise and clearness of apprehension on every topic, left no 
recess of her mind or heart into which the pure light of Heaven 
did not seem to shine. Moreover, a sense of honor led Alban to 
refrain from every word or act which might be construed as taking 
advantage of a half-grown girl’s inexperienced fancy. And a lit- 
tle, it must be confessed, her apparent preference elated his vanity, 
and this is the feeling most opposite to love, in which a natural 
humility and self-distrust ever mingle. 

The shores of the narrowing Sound began to attract their at- 
tention. They passed slowly through fields of ice. Sometimes 
the scene was quite Arctic. Coming upon a long white building 
with wings, lying under the shelter of a bold promontory, a bell 
slowly tolling like a chapel bell saluted their ears 

“ Look, Mr. Alban, what a site for a convent !” 

17 


194 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

“ Would you like to be a nun ?” 

“Not I.” 

“ They say that nunneries are had places.” 

“ I have heard Protestant girls say so, hut I knew a girl who 
had been educated in a convent, and she was the best girl I ever 
knew. My own mother passed all her life in a convent till she 
was married, and I have always heard papa say that though 
bigoted, she was the most innocent creature that could possibly be. 

“ But, like other young ladies, you wish and expect to be mar- 
ried one of these days ?” 

“ Girls have a horror of dying old maids, you know,” blushing 
and laughing. “ So have I ; it is reasonable, Mr. Alban ; for old 
maids are neglected and pitied by every Ijody. But I would not 
mind — I’m not sure I don’t prefer — dying a young maid.” 

“ A sweet idea,” said Alban, “ but shocking. You mustn’t 
mention it.” 

“ I had a friend — the dearest school-friend I ever had — who 
died so — in her virgin bloom. She was just turned of twenty, and 
five years older than I, although we had been room-mates for two 
years. The most conscientious girl I ever knew ! You have heard 
me speak of her before. I owe her every thing.N She was to me 
a friend, a mother, and a sister, all in one.” 

These school-friendships are generally so exaggerated, especially 
when death has dissolved them, that Alban gave more credit to 
iMary’s fancy than to the real excellence of her school-mate for the 
warmth of this eulogy, although its sincerity was attested by tears. 
He observed that it must have been an inestimable advantage at 
Miss De Groot’s age to have had such a friend at school. 

“ You may well say that, Mr. Alban. I feel it more than 
ever now, knowing tho source of Alexandrine’s angelic virtues.” 


ALBAN. 


195 


“ She was a Catholic ?” 

“ She was. But she never tried to convert me. She had 
promised when I was placed with hfl" that she would not. We 
were two and two in a room throughout the establishment, each 
having a separate cot. There was nothing peculiar about her, you 
know, except that she said her prayers kneeling before a crucifix ^ 
instead of in bed, as most of the girls used, and that at night she 
recited the Rosary. I wonder it did not make a greater impression 
upon me then ; but I was so prejudiced against worshipping Christ, 
that I always regarded her as an idolater, although I used to stand 
up for her when her religion was attacked by the orthodox girls.” 

Mr. De Groot’s stomach had become tranquillized in the 
smoother waters of East River. He got up, approached the 
young people, and announced his intention of going on the prome- 
nade deck. The wind had shifted to the south, and the tempera- 
ture had become comparatively mild as they approached New York. 
Mary instantly offered to accompany her father to the hurricane 
deck, to which he asserfted, but requested Atherton to give her his 
arm. So Mr. De Groot walked rapidly up and down on one side 
by himself, while his daughter and Alban, equally glad of the 
opportunity of stretching their legs, promenaded arm in arm, on the 
other. 

“ Your idea of dying unmarried comes back to me,” said Alban, 
perhaps unfairly probing her thoughts. “ Have you no day-dreams, ^ 
then. Miss Mary, of pure, romantic love, in which every thing is 
noble and perfect, vour lover a hero, yourself adored by him, and 
so forth ?” 

“ Alexandrine used to say that castle-building was a vice, and 
yet I do build castles in the air sometimes, Mr. Alban. And you 
are very penetrating to know that there is a great temptation to 
have a hero, and I own that in spite of Alexandrine’s warnings I 
have not always had the virtue to resist it. But, since you are so 
curious, my romance is always a tragedy : the heroine dies.” 

” It was Alexandrine’s death that put such ideas into your 
head.” 


196 


ALBAN. 


“0 dear, no ! I have had them these three years — but let us 
talk of something else.” 

By a little teasing he ^ot her to pursue the subject. She 
was shy of it, yet willing to be persuaded. 

“ To tell you the truth, it was a singular dream I had three 
years ago, which first suggested to me the idea that I should die 
— not exactly unmarried — but I can’t well explain it to you, Mr. 
Alban.” 

“ You know I have always tried to do you good,” said Alban, 
in an insinuating tone. 

“ You have, Mr. Alban. I feel it, I assure you. Well, I will 
tell you my story. But let us stand out of the wind : it flutters 
my clothes so that I can’t hear myself talk. The thing occurred 
when I had been a few months at school. Papa and my present 
mother were in Europe, you know ; so that I was like an orphan, 
and it was the first time in my life that I had even been away 
from home. There were more than a hundred girls in the 
school, and among so many, some of course would be bad. But 
I must say, Mr. Alban, that our public opinion was against bad- 
ness, and those who were openly wicked, or were known to be 
secretly so, were kept at a distance by the others. We had a 
great deal of pride, and there was no end of foolish talking about 
fashions, and society, and beaux, and so on, but I never knew in my 
circle of intimates the slightest approach to impropriety in word 
or conduct that was not frowned down at once. But those who 
were bad and had the tact to conceal it, were dangerous friends, 
as you may suppose. My first room-mate was of this description. 
Papa and mamma had chosen her for me, because our families 
were acquainted, and because her manners were so lady-like. 
She was about two years my senior. There is no telling you in 
how many ways that girl was unprincipled. I shudder to think 
what a risk I ran during the three or four months that I was her 
room-mate. Indeed, I did not quite escape. Is it not strange, Mr. 
Alban, that evil companions always do us harm, although without 
our own consent they can do us none ?” 


ALBAN. 


197 


“ It is very true.” 

“ Henrietta was idle, vain, mendacious — does not that say all ? 
A liar is already every thing had. She was mean, a petty thief — 
she stole confectionary and fruit from the girls, and even once, a 
trinket, which I discovered and returned to the owner — and — she 
was not modest. She was always on her guard in the school, for 
she loved popularity — no one louder than she to condemn any thing 
amiss in others — but before a little girl like me, her room-mate, 
who knew necessarily most of her faults, she betrayed even this. 
You must remember that I was only a few months past thirteen. 
I was afraid to tell of her. I could not bear to be a tell-tale, of 
all things ; and insensibly I began to be less shocked than at the 
first discovery of her badness, and sometimes I was conscious of* a 
temptation (so weak we are) to imitate. I claim no merit for not 
telling lies, cheating, or stealing sugar and cake ; such mean 
vices ; but to neglect my books, wardrobe, and person, spend my 
time in looking at myself in the glass, or reading the novels Henri- 
etta had surreptitiously procured, and, worst of all, to think when 
alone of what she had said to me on topics which openly to her I 
resented her mentioning — these things, Mr. Alban, sorely tried the 
principle of a child to avoid.” 

“ I tremble for you.” 

“ At last : — it was on a day, or rather a night, of mid- winter ; 
— a bitter night, when the door-handles in our fireless dormitories 
blistered my little hands, and the crusty snow on the window- 
panes made them half-dark in spite of the moon, after the candle 
was put out. We had gone to bed, and Henrietta talked to me. 
She was in one of her communicative moods, such as I had often 
answered by flying into an impotent passion. That night, some- 
how, I had not the spirit to be angry. I had been thinking of my 
desolate, half-orphan condition, and the difference between school 
and home, and what care my own mother would have taken to 
guard the innocence of my mind, of which I was being ruthlessly 
robbed, and (I well remember) of the terrible school-future that 
lay before me, when perhaps I should get to be as bad as this cor- 

17 * 


198 


ALBAN. 


rupt companion’, — and even at the moment I was assailed by the 
dreadful suggestions of curiosity to know how I should feel if I 
were wicked like her. So while she talked, I lay silent, weeping 
and struggling with myself — oh, it was horrible !” cried Mary De 
Groot, half turning away from her companion, and hiding her face 
in the sable of her muff. 

“ Poor child !” said Alban, in a tone of deep commiseration, 
“ I enter into your feelings perfectly. It is a pitiable tale.” 

She walked on a little way, looking down, bat never with- 
drew her hand from his arm. 

“ I never dreamed of being carried away to tell so much — but 
now I must finish.” — She resumed in a steady voice. — “ I was 
always sensitive about being touched. It was one reason of my 
dislike to Henrietta, which amounted to perfect detestation ; for 
she was very caressing. Me she generally left alone ; for the 
contrary was sure to provoke a storm. I believe I was terribly 
quick-tempered. Well, this night, when she found I did not reply 
to her as usual, she got up, and making a plea of the cold, pro- 
posed to get into my cot. I flamed up in a moment. I said she 
shouldn’t ; I resisted ; I struck her. She got angry, too, and said 
she would in spite of me. I soon found that she was a great deal 
the strongest, as well she might be. She overpowered me, and 
then I experienced the most piercing temptation of my life, before 
or since, which was to abandon that inward resistance which I 
had hitherto opposed to her corrupting influence — for it wearied 
my life — and henceforth be even like the companion to whom 
Providence seemed to have abandoned my orphan youth. I be- 
lieve it was the thought of my mother that saved me. My de- 
spair changed to fury. I fastened my teeth suddenly in Henri- 
etta’s arm, and she let me go with a scream. I sprang up and ran 
just as I was, and as fast as I could, through the hall and down 
stairs, to the room of the principal, where I burst in and threw 
myself at her feet. Fancy her astonishment. I recounted with 
sobs the insult I had received, exposed Henrietta in all respects, 
and implored Madam to let me have a room by myself. 


ALBAN. 


199 


“ How well I remember her conducting me, barefoot and in 
my little night-dTess, up a rnoon-lit stair and into a large, carpeted 
room, where was indeed a single cot, but occupied. The young 
lady occupying it started up, and” the principal, having told my 
story with brevity, said to her, ‘ Will you change beds for to-night 
with this child, Alexandrine, or will you take her into yours ?’ — 
‘ If she will come to me,’ replied Alexandrine, ‘ I will take her 
into mine.’ The next day at her earnest petition I was placed with 
her, and Henrietta was sent away — packed ofl' home ! Nobody 

ever knew why, except Madam , Alexandrine, and myself ; 

and that caused me a great deal of sufiering ; for I passed for a 
tell-tale (Henrietta gave me the name ere she quitted the house) 
until I left the school. Q,uick as my temper was, I had been the 
universal favorite before ; and after it, although I was respected, 
I was never popular again. I don’t think any of my female 
friends. now love me much.” 

“ Did not Alexandrine love you ?” 

“ Did Alexandrine love me, Mr. Alban ! Oh, never shall I 
forget the tenderness with which she folded me to her bosom that 
first night that I, little trembler, lay beside her like a frightened 
dove. How sweetly she talked to me, how wisely she instructed 
me, how earnestly she prayed for me ! She told me that Jesus 
was the lover of chastity and purity, and that when He became 
man for our sakes He chose to reside first in the bosom of a spot- 
less virgin, probably at that time not a great deal older than I 
was. Then w'hen I cried and confessed to her in what respects I 
had not been so good as she thought, she begged me never to 
think or speak of it again as long as I lived. — ‘ These are almost 
involuntary stains, dear Mary,’ she said, ‘ which your brave and 
lovely behavior of to-night has, I am sure, entirely effaced. Ex- 
cept our immaculate Lady, perhaps no mortal tempted as you 
w'ere, was ever entirely free from such.’ — ‘ Did I do right to bite 
Henrietta ?’ I asked. — ‘ A thousand times right !’ exclaimed Alex- 
andrine, in a way that made me love her so dearly ! ‘ You would 

have done right to bite her head off, if you could, sooner than risk 


200 


ALBAN. 


consenting to a mortal sin !’ — Ah, Mr. Alban, you are as gentle 
as a girl, and it makes me forget who you are.” 

“ Still you have not told me your dream.” 

“ It was just four weeks after that. I had fallen asleep in my 
cot with my hands crossed on my breast as Alexandrine had taught 
me, and I knew that I was dreaming of the room being full of 
angels. Alexandrine had told me about our guardian angels. At 
last I became sensible that one approached my bed, and by degrees 
all the rest faded away. It was not winged, as we see angels 
represented in pictures. Its face was beautiful, and its golden hair 
was full of light, by which the rest of the appearance seemed visi- 
ble. Its garments were simple and white, girt under the breast 
with a golden girdle, and its sparkling hands were crossed on its 
bosom. Its eyes, radiant and full of love, were fastened on me.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ It spoke to me. You can form no idea of the mortal fear I 
was in. It was not like dreaming of one speaking to you ; but if 
you saw some one in your room and supposed you were dreaming, 
and the person were suddenly to speak, you know how it would 
startle you. — ‘Mary,’ it said, — but I need not -repeat the very 
words ; — they intimated that it was the spirit of my mother, and 
warned me just in the simple way that a living mother might, 
against three things — pride, love of dress, and whatever could sully 
a maiden’s purity ; ‘ for in three years,’ concluded the vision, ‘ you 
will be married and buried in one day.’ — You will say, Mr. Alban, , 
that this singular admonition is easily accounted for, like the vision 
itself, by the strong impression made on my mind by recent occur- 
rences. I leave you to settle that as you like. I only know that 
Alexandrine said I shrieked, and that springing up to waken me, 
she found me cold and insensible, not asleep, but having fainted 
quite away. The next year, when I had some expectation of 
dreaming again, nothing happened that-is worth mentioning ; 
but on the second anniversary Alexandrine died, and she declared 
a little while before she expired, being supported at the time in my 
arms, that the same bright visitant whom I had described came 


ALBAN. 


201 


into the room, (she was sleeping, and told me this when she awoke,) 
approached and touched her, and that the soft, sparkling hand sent 
a coldness like ice to her heart.” 

“ Strange ! What is the day thus marked ?” 

“Next Saturday is the anniversary.” 

“ Did you tell any one your dream at the time ?” 

“ Oh, yes, I told it to Alexandrine herself, and to several girls 
who were intimate with us. They all said ‘ Well, Mary, you must 
take care not to marry till the time fixed by the vision is gone by. 
But I don’t know, Mr. Alban, if it is possible so to disappoint a real 
prophecy, which always comes true by some combination that we 
do not foresee. As the time approaches I cannot help thinking of 
it a good deal. It is one reason why I am anxious to be baptized. 
If I were baptized, I should be willing to die next Saturday, wed- 
ded or unwedded : and as I was saying to you, Mr. Alban, such is 
the picture that closes my day-dreams, — myself vested as a bride 
with orange flowers and veil, but white as they, and stiff, laid out 
with bloodless hands crossed and tied on my girlish breast, ready 
for the pure and passionless grave.” 

“ Dreadful !” 

The Fanny was got alongside the wharf by cables and back- 
ing water, with hoarse vociferations of the eaptain from the wheel 
deck. The plank was thrown across the gangway in the midst 
of a flock of drivers flourishing their whips, very much as at the pres- 
ent day. Mr. De Groot’s carriage was waiting on the wharf. He 
offered Alban a seat, which our hero declined, but accepted an in- 
vitation to call very soon at Mr. De Groot’s residence up town. 
In New York the snow was pretty much confined to the dirty heaps 
shovelled up on the sides of the streets. Alban had soon passed all 
the familiar corners, and was set down by his hackney-coach at the 
old house in Grey-street. Embraced with pride and affection by 
his father and mother, and sitting between them on the old-fashioned 
chintz settee, he felt that their hearth was the warmest, brightest 
spot in the world. 

t 


BOOK IV. 


% IJnrntinn. Cjit cgntirt /rnnt nf 36ttilMiig. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Call on Mr. De Groot ? Of course you must, my son, slrAie 
* he asked you. Why, what a proud fellow you are !” said Mr. 
Atherton. 

It was in a sunny back parlor, snug and old fashioned, with 
the wood fire blazing cheerily on tall brass andirons, and a bright 
copper kettle singing on a chafing-dish inside the fender. For 
the Athertons were at breakfast, and a tidy girl brought in from 
time to time, a hot plateful of that Knickerbocker delicacy — 
buckwheat cakes. 

The gilt pendulum of an old-fashioned French clock on the 
handsome mantel, swung and ticked between white marble columns, 
and the hands pointed to the quarter before nine. The apartment 
was pretty enough altogether. A massive sideboard of golden 
mahogany, that shone like a mirror from constant waxing and 
rubbing, with its bright ring handles dependent from gilt lion- 
^heads, and an escritoire book-case to match, had been stylish in 
'our grandmothers’ day, while the light chintz-curtained chairs and 
[settee, painted in green and gold of the Greek pattern, bespoke a 
later date and newer country. The chimney was adorned with 
miniatures,, the walls with portraits — Mr. Atherton, senior, in 
a red-backed chair, and the same boy-face in gown and bands, 


ALBAN. 


203 


■which we have seen once before at the old Atherton house in 
Yanmouth ; both mellow, broad, old-masterish, but plain, un- 
affected pictures ; and at the end of the room, on either side of 
the folding doors, hung a water-color of no great merit, but, both 
immense favorites with Mrs. Atherton, having been executed by 
Rachel one winter that she spent with her aunt in the metropolis. 
To complete this interior, we should not omit the Indian chintz 
window-curtains, and the green crumb-cloth under the table, to 
save the ingrain carpet, the formal squares of which our hero had 
measured to and fro in the reveries of many a dreamy vacation. 

“ But you say that he is one of the richest men in New York, 
sir.” 

“ Undoubtedly. And a great aristocrat, like all them old 
patroons,” said Mr. Atherton, whose early education, owing to his 
father’s death, had been left pretty much to chance. Mr. Ather- 
ton laughed heartily at the idea of any one being an aristocrat in 
these times, and proceeded. “ I remember when his father was 
not so rich, but extremely proud of being the Patroon of Walla- 
hook. Thirty years ago he offered me the old De Groot farm up 
town — it was out of town then — for a mere trifle. I wish I had 
bought it and retired from business ; but I had no idea that real 
estate would rise so immen.sely in New York. The property is 
worth a million now at the least calculation, and by building ju- 
diciously he may treble it in ten years. You must call on him, 
Alban. I dare say he will show you his pictures and books. 
Perhaps not. He is shy of letting people see his things. He may 
receive you in his office.” 

“ It is likely that Alban Avill see Miss De Groot, since he is so 
well acquainted with her,” observed Mrs. Atherton, with a slight 
warmth. “ I should think it was very strange if he didn’t, after 
she had asked him to take charge of her on the boat.” 

“ Mr. De Groot is a very proud man, my dear,” said Mr. Ather- 
ton, laughing and drumming on the table, for his breakfast was 
finished. 

“ I shall feel awkwardly in calling,” said Alban. 


204 


ALBAN . 


“ I don’t see why,” replied his mother. “ I don’t see why you 
should feel awkward about calling on any body.” 

“ I don’t think Mary is at all proud,” continued Alban. 

“ I should call upon her just the same, whether she is proud 
or not,” said his mother. 

“ Undoubtedly,” said his father. “ That should make no dif- 
ference. If you meet'wdth a cool reception, you need’nt be in a 
hurry to pay a seconu visit ; that’s all.” 

“ A cool reception !” said Alban, musingly. 

“ Oh, Mr. De Groot will be very polite to you,” said his 
father. ^ 

“ Pity if he were not, in his own house !” observed Mrs. 
Atherton. 

“ You will ask for Mr. De Groot, you know,” said his father. 
“ Afterwards make inquiries for Miss De Groot. I dare say, (since 
your mother seems to think so,) she will come down and make you 
a curtsey before you go.” 

“ If I don’t see more of Miss Mary than that, I shan’t call 
again in a hurry,” said Alban. 

“ Mr. De Groot does not live in Greenwich-street now,” pur- 
sued his father. “ He has built a new house on his up-town 
property — in the Fifth Avenue, I think they call it. You had 
better take the omnibus as far as Washington Place. It is the 
nearest point. You go on about a quarter of a mile beyond the 
new houses on Washington Parade-ground. Mr. De Groot’s is a 
large house of brown stone standing by itself You can’t miss it.” 

Before departing for Wall-street, Mr. Atherton, who knew 
what young men want, drew his son a check, and bade him order 
a new suit and a fashionable cloak of a Broadway tailor. 


ALBAN. 


205 


CHAPTER II. 

“ A LARGE house of brown stone !” 

It were not a very clear direction now to a house on the Fifth 
Avenue, but it sufficed sixteen years ago. Passing the “ new 
houses” on Washington Square, the mansion thus described became 
visible at a distance, with fruit-trees and the glazed apex of a con- 
servatory rising above its garden wall. Arriving at the square on 
which it stood, Alban beheld the front and lateral perspective of 
something like a palace. A lofty rustic basement of great beauty 
and solidity, crowned by a massive, projecting balcony, had in the 
centre a nobly-arched portal. 

The vestibule was hospitably open, showing a pavement of 
tesselated marble, a rich hanging lamp, and an inner folding-door 
of carved and polished black walnut, with plate glass lights cur- 
tained with French embroidery. Alban timidly pulled a silver 
bell-handle, and one of the battants was instantly flung open by 
a blue-liveried porter of foreign aspect. 

“Is it on business ?” 

“ No,” said Alban, foolishly coloring, “ I merely called to see 
Mr. De-Groot.” 

“ Oh !” said the porter, with a glance that took in our hero, 
faded purple camlet and all, but admitting him. “ What name 
shall I say, sir ?” 

> Alban found himself in an imposing hall of great length, 
pated with white and green marble^and adorned with busts and 
bronzes ; but the porter rather insisted on his entering a sort of 
waiting-room, an oil-cloth’d apartment hung with engravings 
from Trumbull’s pictures, and having high-backed walnut chairs 
stiffly ranged against the walls. Our hero rallied at the print of 
the Declaration ; the head of his ancestor among the Signers, 

18 


206 


aLBAN. 


inspiring a feeling akin to that with which a scion of English no- 
bility might have seen his on the tapestry of the Lords. The ser 
vaut who had taken his card returned, took the purple camlet 
with a grimace of respect, and showed him up an imposing 
staircase to the drawing-rooms. 

Three spacious saloons cn mite extended in a vista of hitherto 
unimagined splendor, carpeted from French looms, ceiled by Ital- 
ian painters, the walls covered with the delicate papers invented 
by Parisian taste, and hung with endless pictures in elaborate 
frames of massive gilding. Ideal busts of lovely female person- 
ifications, placed on pedestals of buhl or precious marble, flanked 
the doors ; statues sparkled like snow in front of the lofty mirrors. 
Tables of buhl and pietra dura, cabinets of inlaid work, and 
etageres of rosewood or ebony, supported vases and other curious 
objects ; here gleaming solitary, as rf too rare to be otherwise ; 
there grouped in orderly confusion ; of porcelain, of Etruscan pot- 
tery, of half-gems, even of gold and silver. The wilderness of 
sumptuous seats astonished him. The corresponding richness of 
the window-curtains was enhanced by the style of the shutter- 
panelling in dark wood, and by the massive stone balconies seen 
between. A line of rich chandeliers consummated an eflect 
which was not of mere splendor, for besides the grand eflect of 
space, a certain simplicity presided over all. 

The rooms were all well- warmed, but in one only a sea-coal 
fire was burning brightly in a mantel-piece of sculpture in Carrara 
marble. The shelf, sustained by elegant Caryatides, Avas orna- 
mented by an Italian clock of bronze, — Phoebus and the Hours ; 
supported on one side by a magnificent bacchanal cup of the same 
material, with a lip of gold, and on the other by a funeral-urn, 
with candelabra, and so forth, — beautiful and heathenish. While 
Alban yet stood admiring it (for he was afraid to sit on the 
ricb chairs) the soft rustle of female garments made him turn. 
It was Mary’s simple garb, and the same beautiful, ingenuous 
face, bright with friendship. 

“ Do these rooms make as awful an impression on you, Mr. 


ALBAN. 


207 


Alban, as they did on me when I first came here from school, I 
wonder.” 

“ I am quite overpowered.” 

“ You will soon get over that feeling — ^wonderfully soon.” 

She made him sit on one of the richest sofas, while she placed 
herself near him in a light chair of gilding and brocade. She in- 
quired if he had found his parents in good health, and told him 
that papa had requested her to show him the house and pictures. 

“ At least,” thought Alban, “ it is not the reception which 
my father led me to anticipate.” 

The pictures in the drawing-rooms were chiefly by such .Amer- 
ican artists as were then known to fame. Allston contributed a fiery 
Prophet and a pair of love-lyrics ; Cole, two romance-landscapes. 
Stuart was represented by a lovely female head. A conspicuous 
portrait by Ingham, finished like a miniature, represented a beau- 
tiful, fair woman, in a well-fitting muslin robe and silk shawl, 
more natural than reality itself, which pleased our hero’s unde- 
veloped taste. “ My stepmother !” said Mary. 

There was a child’s head by Sully, with the shoulders bare 
to the waist ; the flesh crude ; the slight drapery merely indica- 
ted ; but the dark, living eyes a miracle. 

“ That’s me at seven,” said Mary, with a blush. 

Adjacent to the third saloon of the suite was a cabinet, or 
rather boudoir, in which one wall was occupied by a large paint- 
ing covered with red silk. The young lady with a slight hesita- 
tion drew aside the curtain. , 

It was the Ariadne of Vanderlyn — world-renowned for that 
one picture, but doubly a favorite with Mr. De Groot on account 
of his descent. The enchantress is represented at the moment 
when Theseus deserts her in her sleep. She lies on a bank of 
grass and sand, backed by trees. Her drapery — purple and linen 
— is beneath her, an extremity of the latter slightly covering the 
groin. The arms being raised over the head in a natural attitude 
of slumber, the hands freely grasp the black, goddess-like, waving 
and dishevelled tresses. The flesh, upon the whole, is sweetly col- 


208 


ALBAN. 


ored, especially in the face, the light broad and simple, the outline 
elegant. The greatest beauty of the picture, however, is the back- 
ground — a deep, olive-tinted landscape, with mighty trees and 
broad leaves overshadowing the repose of Ariadne, while in the 
distance is seen the Mediterranean, with the bark of the treacherous 
Theseus. The smoke of his parting sacrifice ascends from the 
shore, and a rosy, volcanic peak rises beyond the blue .waves. 

While Alban was looking at it he found that Mary had disap- 
peared, and perceiving that the Venetian window of the cabinet 
was open into a conservatory, he went out presently, and discovered 
her making a nosegay. An amphitheatre of beautiful plants, with 
orange, lemon, and magnolia trees, surrounded a fountain. Going 
round it (after she had given him the bouquet) they came to a flight 
of steps, and a door in a blank wall. It admitted them into a lofty 
gallery lighted from the roof. Here was the hulk of her father’s 
collection — Reynolds, Wilkie, Newton, Leslie — names that awed 
Alban — a reputed Titian, some fine Italian pictures by less known 
masters, some Flemish interiors of churches, and Dutch market 
scenes. The floor was parqueted and spread at intervals with 
small Turkey carpets, on which antique oaken chairs were placed 
for the view. There were also huge stands filled with portfolios, 
and solid oaken tables for the inspection of engravings ; — “ But 
these,” said Mary De Groot, “ we will keep for the next time, Mr. 
Alban.” 

They spent more than an hour in the gallery, time passing 
away quickly where was so much to interest ; and Mary was never 
weary of those interiors of churches, where in one a priest w'as 
saying mass at an early hour, with a devout congregation of 
peasants, in another a stately procession bore some holy relic to its 
shrine. Except the little chapel at New Haven these were the 
only Catholic churches she knew. She entertained Alban mean- 
while with her lively and natural gossip. When they had looked 
enough, she took him hack by the conservatory, and the Venetian 
window of the Vanderlyn cabinet. Mary drew the curtain before 
the Ariadne, and then led him on to a room beyond. 


ALBAN. 


209 


“ This IS the dining-room, Mr. Alban. I have kept it for the 
last.” 

Alban was not surprised at her doing so as he gazed around the 
apartment. It was wainscoted to a certain height with old dark 
oak, carved with fruit, flowers, satyrs, bacchantes, and leopards’ 
heads. Superiorly the walls were covered with red-figured velvet 
and adorned with genuine family pieces of the Dutch and Flemish 
schools, brought by the ancestor of Mr. De Groot from Holland. 
In splendor of tone and purity of carnations these surpassed all the 
rest of his collection. Alban had no idea that New York possessed 
such treasures. “ A good many old Dutch families,” said Mary, 
with pride, “ possess such heir-looms ; but none so untouched as 
ours, or so valuable. The carved oak papa got from Belgium.” 

Alban slightly smiled, but he felt a strong sympathy. The 
furniture of the banqueting-room corresponded to the walls — dark 
carved oak and red velvet. Massive silver sconces holding wax 
candles were fixed to the wainscotting at suitable intervals, and at 
the upper end of the room, a lofty oaken cupboard in the same 
style, with its carved doors thrown open, displayed a range of 
shelves that glittered with ancient plate and porcelain. The room 
was lighted by a^single large window, the lower half of which was 
filled with stained glass that probably had once lighted a refectory, 
for the subject was from Scripture — the Lord entertained by the 
Pharisee. 

When our hero had admired all this sufficiently in the estima- 
tion of his young cicerone, she opened one of the knopped and flow- 
ered oaken doors, and preceded" him into a dim, secluded, wain- 
scoted lobby, lighted by an oriel of stained glass. She showed 
him that this passage communicated both with the hall, and with 
a private stair, by separate doors concealed in the panelling. 

“ What a place for lovers ! I must be a little witch at heart, 
for I declare I never pass here without that thought popping into 
my head. Can’t you fancy a midnight meeting at the foot of that 
secret stair, Mr, Alban, or a stolen kiss by day in one of these 
shadowy corners ?” 


18 * 


210 


albXn. 


The instant these words had passed her lips, Mary became 
scarlet, and tripping away to a door in a deep recess, set it wide open 
and invited her student friend to pass. As he approached she 
leaned back against the wainscot, and her face M^as laid like a rosy 
cameo against the dark panel. Alban would as soon have dared 
strike that red cheek as kiss it, and the picture lasted but a moment. 
She whispered “ Papa !” He glanced into the next room and saw 
that it was the library, where, about half-way down, Mr. De Groot 
was reading by the fire. He moved on therefore, but when he 
looked back for his fair guide, she made a graceful obeisance and 
closed the door on him. 

Although our pen is almost weary of description, we cannot 
quite pass over a locale so celebrated and yet so inaccessible as Mr. 
De Groot’s library. It was a room at least twice as lofty as any 
of those Alban had seen, except the gallery, and was lined to 
the ceiling with glazed bookcases of black unpolished walnut. 
The ceiling was coved, and admitted the light by a lantern dome. 
There was also one high, dim, square, mullioned window of stained 
glass. A solid gallery, of the same material as the bookshelves, ran 
round the room about midway up. The white vellum and other 
rich old Jaindings, and the vast number of folios, promised well for 
the collection. At regular intervals round the lower room, in wal- 
nut niches, were placed busts of philosophers and founders of sects. 
Over the mantel hung a beautiful youthful portrait of Dr. Channing. 
The book tables and study chairs were of black walnut, and the 
latter had cushions of dark green leather. The soft light from the 
dome produced a beautiful effect on this sober and scholastic inte- 
rior, into which Alban advanced slowly, and at first unnoticed. 


ALBAN . 


211 


CHAPTER III. 

Alban was received by the owner of this magnificent house with 
the appearance of perfect cordiality. Mr. De Groot inquired par- 
ticularly how he had liked the pictures, and made him specify 
which he had preferred. Every thing that Alban said suggested 
some striking remark on the part of his entertainer. The Ariadne 
was alluded to. 

“ In persons unaccustomed to Art,” said Mr. De Groot, “ there 
is a kind of susceptibility which compares with real modesty as the 
lia'^ility to take certain infections on the part of those who have 
never been exposed to them, does with health. Our country- 
women have a great deal of this. The purity of a work of Art does 
not depend on its being draped or the reverse. There are draped 
representations which are immoral, and there are nude ones which 
are pure as new-fallen snow. I don’t say the Ariadne is quite one 
of these. The motives of Correggio, who was Vanderlyn’s master, 
were not of the highest kind, although he has succeeded in invest- 
ing the most repulsive subjects — the Danae, for example — with a 
haze of luminous execution, that prevents the dazzled eye from see- 
ing their indelicacy. The nude, purely treated, blunts curiosity, 
and in that point of view has a moral utility.” 

Alban listened with interest. 

“ I remember,” continued Mr. De Groot, “ a picture of Titian’s, 
called Sacred and Profane Love. By the by I never saw a true 
criticism of it yet. The background is one of Titian’s noble land- 
scapes, with deep blue hills. A clump of brown trees divides the 
distance, on one side of which is seen a castle, representing the 
secular life, and on the other a convent, or the life of religion. In 
the foreground sits a young lady completely attired and coifled, in 
the mode of Titian’s time. She is debating between Sacred and 
Profane Love — the world and the cloister. Directly in front, on 


212 


ALBAN. 


the edge of a fine yellowish-white sarcophagus, sits another female 
figure, entirely nude, except a crimson drapery just faljjng from 
her shoulder, and against which her elegant form is defined : she 
regards the other with a face full of tenderness, and extending one 
pure arm, lifts on high a burning lamp ; — this is Sacred Love. 
Imagine the sweetness and purity of color and outline in this 
sitting figure, with its innocent nakedness and modest candor of 
attitude, in contrast to that modish damsel, clothed to her finger 
tips ! You feel at once, that drapery would impair its spirituality 
and destroy its chastity. What ardor in the action of the pectoral 
muscles sustaining the lifted arm — what modesty in the close 
union of the limbs and bend of the 'knee — would be lost ! Behind 
the sarcophagus, and stooping over the edge to gather the flowers 
' within it, is a Cupid, nude and winged boy — ProfaneLove. Thus 
Profane Love gropes in a sarcophagus for flowers — the perishable 
offspring of earth ; Sacred Love lifts above the tomb itself a flaming 
lamp — type of the soul and immortality, and the aspirations that 
ascend to Heaven.” 

“ Beautiful !” exclaimed Alban. 

Our hero’s eye had often rested during this conversation on a 
low desk and stool near the fire. The desk had upon it an open 
volume in black letter with richly illuminated margins, and a 
lady’s pocket-handkerchief. 

“ A manuscript missal on vellum,” said Mr. De Groot, fasten- 
ing his dark eyes on the volume, but not offering to show it. 
“ The illuminations are not in the highest style of art. I will 
show you some one day, that I am really proud of. I am glad 
you have a taste for these things. I often think what will become 
of my treasures when I am gone and Mary is married.” Mr. De 
Groot cast a jealous glance around the stately book-chamber. “A 
* fellow, for example, whom I would not willingly let peep under 
the covers of my favorites, how could I bear the idea of his being 
their master !” 

“It is to be hoped that Miss De Groot will take a fancy to 
some one capable of appreciating your fine collection, sir.” 


ALBAN. 


213 


“ What profession do you intend to follow, Mr. Atherton ?” in- 
quired Mr. De Groot, rather sharply, after a moment’s pause. 

Alban was undecided. In his pious days he had looked for- 
ward to the ministry. Lately he had thought of Law and Medi- 
cine, of Literature and the Army. He had in fact a hundred 
wild ideas in regard to his future career. 

“ A medical education will do you no hurt,” said Mr. De 
Groot, in his oracular way. “ All knowledge is good. But as a 
pursuit it would leave some of your finest faculties unemployed. 
-The pulpit offers a field to a man of first-rate organization,” 
glancing at the portrait of Channing — “ but it requires too great 
a sacrifice to consecrated prejudices in order to win or retain the 
popular approval. The Protestant preacher, however superior he 
may be, is obliged to cede as much as the Catholic, to the tyranny 
of his sect, without having the comfort of believing his guide in- 
fallible. Law is a hard, dry pursuit, but it will give you inde- 
pendence. Then with us the forum leads to the senate. Your 
grandfather was a lawyer, and rose by his own abilities from a 
carpenter’s apprentice to be President of Congress.” 

“ My paternal grandfather,” said Alban. 

“ Hem ! Your matertml grandfather was a soldier. He got 
rank because he was rich and well-connected, but I don’t remem- 
ber that he distinguished himself particularly. A conscientious, 
■ dependable man, and the confidential friend of Washington ; but 
that was all ?” 

“ I believe so.” 

“ Oh, you can go farther back — if that’s what you mean,” 
said Mr. De Groot, with a dry smile. ” You came of English 
squirearchs — armigeri at least. Your Puritan ancestor, who fled 
to New England from Laud and the pillory, or the branding-iron, 
or some other mild argument for Episcopacy, had a brother who 
was a rattling cavalier and a captain in the life-guard of Charles 
I. himself. I know something, you see, of your antecedents. 
Well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t follow the noble profession of 
arms, if you have a leaning thereto. In popular states a success- 


214 


ALBAN. 


ful general will step up before all the orators and statesmen in 
existence into the seat of power. We shall have wars. There 
will be opportunities enow. But think of spending the best 
years of your life in garrisons and frontier forts, and perhaps 
dying at last in your first battle without any kind of distinction, 
or the peculiar usefulness of which distinction is the tokexi. In 
another career you may command it.” 

“ That is why I turn to literature with such predilection,” 
said the young man, greatly excited by Mr. De G root’s way of 
talking. 

“Letters,” resumed Mr. De Groot, after a long glance around 
his endless book-shelves, “ are a pursuit that surpasses every other 
in enjoyment, and nearly every other in dignity. We must have 
our own literary men. We can’t afford to let other nations write 
our books for us. That were worse than the policy which would 
hire them to fight our battles. There is a thought and there is a 
sentiment which belongs to and which we are in a manner 
bound to elicit. But — I am sorry to interpose so many huU, 
young sir — you are to consider that you must live. You cannot 
live by literature. It is difficult anywhere, but in this country it 
is impossible. As pride distinguishes the Spaniard, revenge the 
Italian, lust the Saxon, and sanguinary violence (they say) the 
Celt, so pecuniary injustice is our national trait. We steal the 
author’s right in every book we publish, native or foreign. Now, 
Atherton, you can’t live by a craft where people hold themselves 
at liberty to steal what you have produced.” 

“ You are very kind, sir, to give me all this advice,” said 
Atherton, sincerely. 

“We are a rich people,” pursued Mr. De Groot. “A virgin 
soil — the untouched mould of centuries — yields us — fortunate pro- 
prietors — its overflowing returns, and yet we are mean enough to 
be willing to enjoy the fruit of others’ labor without paying for it : 
— and who are those others ? our brethren, whom nature distrib- 
uting the faculties and inspiring the tendencies of men according 
to a law not to be violated with impunity, has compelled to con- 


ALBAN . 


215 


struct out of meditation and passion through the divine art of 
language, our mental habitations, and whom we are not ashamed 
to compel to find straw as well as brick, and to rob of their just 
wages. It is a thief’s mistake to suppose that we derive any 
benefit, except of the most temporary and illusive kind, from the 
cheapness of our pirated literature. No doubt we have a selfish 
pleasure in getting something for nothing, but it is a pleasure which 
pollutes and degrades. We are such a reading people, forsooth ! 
Yes ! it is one of our vices : for the endless reading of cheap 
books is a vice. I am an old Knickerbocker — a plain Dutchman, 
not sharp, perhaps, but honest, and I detest (excuse me, Atherton) 
these Yankee notions of property. I thank Heaven I am pure in 
this matter, I can look round these walls without a reproving 
conscience. There is not an American reprint in my whole 
library. No poor devil of an author, starving in a garret, M'^hile I 
weep over his pathos or smile at his wit, curses me over my 
Moulder with his spectre face.” 

“ I give up authorship,” said Alban. “ I think it must be 
law for me.” 

“ If I were you I would enter myself in a lawyer’s office at 
once,” replied the patroon. “ Those handy octavos in tawny 
sheepskin will be better reading for you than illuminated missals.” 

Alban confessed that this was probably true enough. Mr. De 
Groot mused, and then adverted to the subject of his daughter. 
She was very young. He felt bound to watch over the formation 
of her friendships, especially wfith persons of her own age and 
another sex. 

“ If parents were not proverbially blind,” he said with a smile, 
“ it would be strange that in sending my daughter to visit some 
old friends at New Haven, the possibility of her forming some inti- 
macy that I might not approve in a place like that, never occurred 
to me.' When I told her at parting not to fall in love with any 
of the College boys, it was certainly not because I apprehended 
such a thing, and I believe she deemed the idea quite beneath 
lieu dignity. 1 was completely taken by surprise, therefore, Mr. 


216 


ALBAN. 


Atherton, to hear from her in a letter of characteristic frankness, 
that the conversation of a ‘ distinguished’ member of the Senior 
class whom she thought I would like, had unsettled her TJnita- 
rianism. I went to New Haven express. I found her, as you 
remember, out walking with you on a Sunday afternoon. She 
had also accepted your escort down to New York. I confess 
I was more annoyed than a little, although I saw that you were 
not an ordinary youth. Perhaps you will not blame me for over- 
hearing your conversation with her on the boat yesterday — at least 
enough of it to give me a pretty good notion of your character.” 

“ Certainly not,” said Alban, who had blushed during this 
address. 

“ Let it suffice that I was convinced by it that you would be 
a safe friend for my little girl. I perceived, Mr. Atherton, that it 
was really friendship, a point in regard to which I was at first 
skeptical,” said Mr. De Groot. 

“ I was going to say,” eagerly interrupted Alban, “ that I have 
never breathed a syllable to Miss De Groot that could bear any 
other interpretation.” 

“ Well, all I ask is, that you will avoid the delicate ground of 
religion with your young friend as much as possible. Her youth 
and her sex alike unfit her to consider such questions with profit. 
I have imposed the same condition on her. 1 hope you will con- 
sent to it as she has.” 

“ Of course,” said Alban. 

“ I suppose Mary did not take you over the chambers,” pur- 
sued his host. “ Would you like to see them ? To one who has 
not been in Europe they may be curious.” 

Alban would have preferred to look over the library, but he 
assented of course to what Mr. De Groot proposed. The latter 
made him admire the great staircase on the side of the hall, with 
its massive oak-grained balustrade, its broad leisurely flights, the 
bronzes which sustained the lamps at the landings. They reached 
the corridor of the chambers, hung in its whole length with col- 
ored prints and drawings, following which you might make the 


ALBAN. 


217 


tour of Europe without missing one of its celebrated sites or monu- 
ments. Then through room after room in which, although every 
thing was really sumptuous and nothing wanting, yet all seemed 
simple. Alban admired the bath-rooms, (the Croton had not yet 
rendered this luxury familiar,) where hot and cold water was 
supplied to marble basins by silver cocks. In one stately chamber, 
with dressing-rooms attached, and separate baths, two elegant 
couches stood side by side under the same canopy of blue satin, 
and veiled in clouds of embroidered muslin. 

“ Mrs. De Groot’s room,” remarked his host. “ We became 
accustomed to separate beds when abroad, and now we prefer it.” 

The last room which Mr. De Groot showed our hero was 
somewhat different from the rest. In lieu of the French bed- 
steads and silken draperies elsewhere seen, it had an old-fashioned 
four-poster of old mahogany, almost as black as ebony, with cur- 
tains of Indian chintz. The rest of the furniture was of the same 
style and date. The toilet-glass — placed in front of the large, 
deeply-recessed window — had a frame of silver, with sconces. But 
a more interesting object was an antiquated prie dieu, or kneeling 
desk, supplied with sconces matching those of the mirror, and a mas- 
sive silver crucifix. The room had an air of occupation, a wood- 
fire burning on the hearth. Over the mantel hung a portrait — of 
whom it was easy for Alban to divine ; — a beautiful woman in a 
dress of dark gray cloth falling softly over a figure of unusual ele- 
gance, and confined at the waist by a simple cord of the same 
sombre hue. In her finely-shaped hand she held a common black 
rosary. Yet it was not a nun ; for her raven hair, arranged as 
Mary De Groot always wore hers, was profuse in quantity. The 
only ornament of any kind upon this striking and noble pictured 
personage was the tiny circle of gold on the ring-finger of her left 
hand. 

“ My daughter’s taste,” said Mr. De Groot, standing on the 
threshold and looking at the portrait. “ Perhaps I should 
not have shown her room. Do not mention that you have 
seen it.” 


19 


218 


ALBAN. 


The basement of the mansion was like another house, and here, 
in one of its lofty, sunny parlors, portrait-hung 'and of domestic as- 
pect, a white-haired negro — the type of an old family servant — was 
getting luncheon ready. Here Mary De Groot was again found, 
sitting, or rather half-reclining, in a red Boston rocking-chair, with 
her tiptoes just touching the carpet, a position which she quitted 
when the gentlemen entered. And here was also a lady whom 
Alban, by the resemblance to Ingham’s portrait, knew to be Mrs. 
De Groot. She was nearly as handsome as her picture, and quite 
as handsomely dressed. A robe of rich shot silk, fitting very, very 
tight, (for the figure was redundant,) a costly lace cape, and a 
delicate coif to match, made an imposing drawing-room lady. 
She received Alban with great cordiality of manner, accompanied 
by the warm pressure of a plump, white hand sparkling with 
rings. 

“ Are you not a nephew of the late Rev. Jonathan Atherton ? 
Delighted to see you ! Mary has been telling me about you. 
Your uncle was instrumental, Mr. Atherton — but you understand 
me. Where does your mother live ? I must really take the lib- 
erty of calling on her immediately to tell her how much I loved 
her brother, and also to congratulate her on the possession of such 
a son.” 




ALBAN. 


219 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ I AM afraid you have given up reading your Bible, Alby ?” said 
his mother, -w’ith a grieved but tender look. We may understand 
from this expression that Alban had been making his mother a 
confidant of his religious difficulties. 

“ The more I read the Bible the more I am filled with doubt.” 

‘‘ You must not consult your own reason — but look to Heaven 
for light,” said his mother. 

“ The more I pray the mightier are my perplexities.” 

” It is a trial of your faith ; you must persist in reading and 
praying,” said his mother. 

“ But what can I do with such a passage as this of St. Mat- 
thew ?” said Alban, with a sort of irritation : “ That it might 
he ful filled which was spoken of the Lord by the prophet, saying, 
Out of Egypt have I called my Son. I turn to the prophecy 
referred to and find it thus, Israel was a child then I loved 

him, atid called 7ny son out of Egypt ; referring, as the context 
plainly shows, to the departure of the Israelites out "of Egypt 
under Moses ! Such were the arguments of the Apostles ! The 
dexterous application of the words of an ancient Jewish prophet, 
so as to tally with some real or supposed event in the life of Jesus, 
sufficed to produce faith in their credulous hearers.” 

“ You shock me, Alban.” 

” Nay, mother, I only adduce it to show you how things strike 
me as I read the Bible even on my knees. I could multiply such 
instances in the New Testament : He shall be called a Nazarene ; 
A Virgin shall conceive ; A bone of him shall not be broken ; or 
Peter’s argument from the words of David, Thau wilt not suffer 
tliyholy one to see corruption. All fall under the same category. 
In fact, the reasonings of our Lord Himself with the Jews are open 
to the same objection. How inconsequent is it to infer the resur- 


220 


ALBAN . 


rection of the body from the words I am the God of Abraham, 
Isaac, and Jacob, since it is manifest that in the ordinary use of 
language this expression need mean no more than that I am the 
God who^n Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob icorshipped when alive ! 
Just so,” continued Alban, waxing warm, “ of our Lord’s cele- 
brated question which silenced the Pharisees: — The Lord said 
unto my Lord, Sit on my right hand. — David therefore in 
spirit calleth Him Lord, how is he then his So7i ? Whereas, 
if the Pharisees had understood the simplest figures of rhetoric, 
they would have answered, that although David may have been 
the composer of the psalm in question, he need not be supposed to 
speak always in his oivn person." 

“ You must put such thoughts away ; they are suggestions of 
Satan,” said his mother. 

“ Why, it is precisely thus that Roman Catholics reason from 
the words of Christ Himself Why does not This is my Body 
prove Transubstantiation, as they say ?” 

“ Because, my dear Alban,” said his mother, impatiently, “ that 
only means that the Bread sigtiifies Christ’s Body.” 

“ Ah ! there it is. That is all it need mean, and the same 
might have been said by the Sadducees in answer to the passage 
adduced by our Lord for the resurrection.” 

“ But Transubstantiation is an absurdity, Alban,” cried his 
mother, quickly, “ and therefore cannot be the meaning of our 
Saviour.” 

“ And pray what is the resurrection of the bodies of the infinite 
myriads of men since "he world began, after they have been scat- 
tered to the four winds, and dissolved into dust and gas ? And 
what is to be done in the case of cannibals, my dear mother ?” 

“ The power of God, my dear Alban ! You don’t pretend to 
limit omnipotence,” retorted his mother. 

“ No, I do not pretend to limit it,” replied Alban, with a slight 
smile at himself for getting drawn into such an argument. “ I 
only spoke because I craved sympathy, my dear mother. Nobody 
understands my difficulties.” 


ALBAN. 


221 


Mrs. Atherton was silent. A syllogism is pretty much lost on 
a woman, Jjut she feels the faintest appeal to her heart. 

“ I am glad you have told me your difficulties, Alby,” she said 
at length. “ I should be very sorry if you were afraid or unwillitig 
to confide them to me. I dare say now you’ve relieved your mind, 
it will be easier.” 

“ There are things in the Old Testament I can’t get over, or 
get round,” resumed her son, who was sitting on the settee with 
the family Bible open on a stand before him, — his mother’s work- 
stand, the remainder of which was taken up with the etceteras of 
her plain sewing. “ For instance, the history of Moses, the provi- 
dential circumstances attending his birth and education, the ap- 
pearance of God to him in a bush, the miracles by which he is 
said to have brought out his tw'elve tribes from the land oi’ bondage, 
the wonderful passage of the Red Sea, the manna and miraculous 
water in the desert : — all to usher in what ? The giving of the 
Ten precepts of the Moral Law on a desert mountain to this camp 
of fugitive herdsmen and bricklayers! I do not think it possible 
that such a history, with such a finale, could have been imagined 
or invented by mortal man. If God ever took out a people for 
himself out of another people, as Moses says, with signs and won- 
ders and an outstretched arm, it must have been, it would have 
been, to announce such a code, which contains the essence of all 
religious and social rules, the great foundation-stones of the primary 
duties, stripped of all extraneous matter, simplified, methodically 
placed, and laid firm in the authority of the Creator Himself. The 
history of the Jews ever since just comes in as a proof that this 
view of the transaction is no flight of fancy. The Jews are a 
fact. I am sure that God spake by Moses .'” 

“And not by Jesus Christ?” inquired his mother. “Surely 
you must be blind, Alban.” 

“ I can find nothing worthy of God in Christianity as it has 
been taught me, mother,” replied her son, sternly. “ Forgive me 
for saying so. I don’t mean to reflect on your teaching. I speak 
of what is current. Justification by faith and^Riis new heart. 


222 


ALBAN. 


seem to me mere baby-talk. It is worse than that, for it is talk 
that undermines the first principles of morals. I see it theoreti- 
cally, and I have experienced it practically, and I have done with 
it for ever.” 

“ This comes of New Haven divinity,” said his mother, tears 
running down her pale, delicate cheek, and falling on the shirt 
she was making for her son. 

The sound of wheels was heard in the quiet street, and ceased 
at Mrs. Atherton’s door. The bell was rung with a jerk. Mary 
Anne, the maid of all work, was cleaning her knives. You could 
hear her in the kitchen entry. But the sound instantly ceased, 
while the girl hastily washed her hands and tied on a clean apron 
before running to the street-door, which she would be sure to open, 
out of breath, and with a face as red as a peony. Alban observed 
that it was the De Groots, and half wished a fire had been lit in 
the front parlor : but it was too late to wish it, for the lady visitors 
came sailing in like two angels fresh from Paris. 

Not to describe Mrs. De Groot’s costume would_be to omit 
her almost entirely. She was nothing apart from her clothes, 
and with them she appeared to be a great deal. Her large, white 
velvet hat {Anglice, bonnet) and its drooping plume, the long, 
starry veil, trailing cashmere of Ind, and flounced amethyst silk, 
seemed, as they spread in a glory of shooting iris hues and snow 
over the ehintz settee, to look Mrs. Atherton’s modest parlor out 
of countenance. As for Mary, she appeared to have caught a 
light from her mother’s effulgence of fashion. No more of that 
charming plainness which had marked her at New Haven. A 
great bonnet of Mazarin blue silk surrounded her lovely face, and 
a cloak and robe of the same material and of the newest fashion 
invested her form. She looked surprisingly larger and older, and 
Alban realized that she had grown since he first saw her. She 
was so wonderfully easy, too, sat with such a careless grace in 
her corner of the settee, her neatly shod feet playing hide-and-”'o- 
seek with each other, for the robes w^ere short in those days, and 
betrayed the white stockings and morocco slippers neatly cross- 


ALBAN, 


223 


laced around an ankle straight and fine. Alban introduced the 
visitors to his mother, who quietly laid aside, but did not put out 
of sight, her homely work. Mrs. De Groot glanced at the portrait 
of the clerical uncle, and began at once on that subject. 

It soon appeared what Mrs. De Groot’s idea of our hero was, 
nor was it unnatural. Mary had truly said that Alban’s conver- 
sation had first set her to thinking, which had ended, as Mrs. De 
Groot expressed it, in her abjuring her father’s shocking opinions 
— so far a great triumph for Mrs. De Groot. In answer to her 
stepmother’s further inquiries, she had stated that Mr. Atherton 
was a member of the College Church, reputed very pious, emi- 
nently pure and irreproachable in morals, &c. Of course she could 
say nothing about Alban’s skepticism, which he had acknowledged 
to her in confidence. Moreover, Mary herself believed it to be 
but a temporary perplexity, natural and inevitable in a thought- 
ful Protestant, (the child already begins to talk in that way,) and 
rather to be approved as disposing him to seek a better faith, 
which she was sanguine he would. Mrs. De Groot, therefore, had 
really formed the most exalted opinion of our hero, and as women 
generally forestall a conclusion, above all where young marriage- 
able people are concerned, she considered him already as good as 
a son-in-law. Nor was this an ill-founded or rash opinion ; for 
both parents naturally regarded their daughter as being in love, 

' and had discussed the affair in that point of view. If Mary 
should marry an orthodox Presbyterian — particularly a “ nephew 
of Mr. Atherton’s,” — really Mrs. De Groot had not expected 
any thing half so good. Her father thought — but hii motives 
are not so easily fathomed : at all events he told his wife that he 
had determined to let things “ take their course.” He thought 
Atherton was a conceited puppy, and Mary might do a great deal 
better, and she might also do a great deal worse. “ He’s as poor 
as Job’s turkey,” he concluded ; and this again rather pleased Mrs. 
De Groot, who liked to feel herSelf in a position of patronage to- 
wards the future connections. The origin and past of the Ather- 
tons were such as to make this peculiarly gratifying to Mary’s 


224 


ALBAN, 


stepmother, who had not always enjoyed so eminent a station as 
at present. One might have supposed, to hear her talk to Mrs. 
Atherton about her brother, that she had been in a situation to 
patronize her minister extensively, in the days of which she spoke, 
but the fact was, that only her “ interesting state of mind” had 
ever obtained his notice. Let us do Mrs. De Groot justice, how- 
ever. We believe there is always a heart — seat of amiable 
weakness — under the tightest silk bodice ever held by hooks and 
eyes. In those days, before Mary was born, or Alban either, 
when that heart was eighteen j'ears old, and beat in a maiden 
bosom, she had loved the clerical boy-face whose likeness hung 
over Mrs. Atherton’s bright sideboard. The Rev. Mr. Atherton 
never dreamed of it, and soon scattered many such hopes to the 
wind by bringing from his former parish in the country a beauti- 
ful, pious, clever creature, to fill the important and envied sta- 
tion of minister’s wife : and now a nephew of whom he knew 
nothing, reaped a benefit from his unconscious conquest. 

Meanwhile the young people conversed separately. 

“ What a dear horne-like home you have got, Mr. Alban,” 
said Mary, with a smile. 

“ You think so ?” said Alban, looking round. 

“ And what a dear gentle mother ! I love her already.” — 
With a blush, and in a whisper. — “ I wonder if she would like 
to have me come and read to her. I should enjoy it so much.” 

“ She would be charmed,” said Alban, with a gratified look, 
yet a little embarrassed ; for he had not Mary’s openness. 

“I am ashamed to admire every thing,” said she, “but really 
what a pretty fire-screen that is of your mother’s. Did she em- 
broider it herself? Oh, I wish she would teach me. Of all 
things I want to learn to embroider.” 

“ Mother — ” 

“ Oh, don’t, Mr. Alban — ” 

“ Miss De Groot wishes you to teach her to embroider a fire- 

screen, Miss Mary ?” 

“Not precisely, Mr. Alban.” 


ALBAN. 


225 


“ Where did you learn to work so beautifully, Mrs. Ather- 
ton ?” asked Mrs. De Groot. 

“ At Bethlehem,” replied Alban’s mother. 

“ What, where our blessed Saviour was born !” exclaimed 
Mary, innocently. 

But Bethlehem was a celebrated Moravian school in ISfrs 
Atherton’s girlhood. The conversation turned on it. Mrs. Ath- 
erton described the customs of Bethlehem in a lively manner, with 
many a characteristic New England turn of expression and accent, 
refined, as all national peculiarities are in cultivated women. 
Mary listened with tears of delight in her joyful dark eyes, and a 
vivid blush on her rich cheek. Mrs. De Groot shrugged her 
shoulders at the Easter processions, white robes, and lighted tapers 
of the Moravians. After that, the call terminated by Mrs. De 
Groot inviting Mrs. Atherton with her son and husband to dinner 
the next day to meet the Rev. Dr. Fluent, Mrs. De Groot’s pastor. 

“ You were reading the Bible when we came in ?” said Mary, 
glancing, as she rose, at the sacred volume still open on the work- 
stand She smiled and hesitated. — “ I suppose I may ask how 
you get on, Mr. Alban ?” 

“ I have go*: so far as to believe in Moses,” replied the young 
man, remembei.ng his promise to her father. 

“ Moses !” said Mary, curiously. 

“ Exactly,” said Alban, smiling. “ You are going to turn 
Roman Catholic, Miss Mary. I may perhaps be forced to em- 
brace a faith yet more ancient, and become a Jew.” 

“ Christians,” Mrs. De Groot was saying to Mrs. Atherton, 
“ should maintain a closer intercourse. In future, I trust it will 
be so with us.” 

“ We shan’t keep up much intercourse with Infidels and Jews, 
I hope,” said Mary, aside, with a flash of the old haughtiness. 

“ I shall follow my convictions,” returned the young man in 
the same tone, “ even if they lead me to the Synagogue.” 

“ Well, don’t ask me to be present at the ceremony of your 
reception — that’s all !” cried the young lady, turning away to 


226 


ALBAN. 


follow her stepmother out of the room. She came hack, quite 
scarlet, to shake hands with Mrs. Atherton, but did not salute 
Alban at all. He conducted them to the carriage, hut she never 
looked back, and sprang in without touching his offered hand. 

“ People will treat you so, one day.” 

Having picked up her muff, which she seemed to have knocked 
purposely off the seat, as she raised herself with a countenance 
still brightly tinged, she answered to her mother’s evident horror — 

“ You read the Bible too much, Mr. Alban. That is not the 
way to find out the truth, 'but to become an infidel, a heretic, and 
an apostate. Oh, Mr. Alban, I hope you will never be an apos- 
tate !” 

“Did you ever !” exclaimed Mrs. De Groot. 

“ Miss De Groot means that we cannot hope to understand the 
Scriptures without the light of faith,” said Alban. 

“ Yes, the faith of the Church,” said Mary. 

“ Well, I concede that,” replied Alban; “but you must let me 
search till I find the true Church.” 

She extended her hand frankly, and pressed his with a free- 
dom unusual to her. — “ I shall pray for you,” she said, 

“ Do come to see us often,” said Mrs. De Groot, as he bowed 
himself away. 

Our hero’s aberration seems at present grievous indeed. How 
he will get out of this scrape is more than we undertake to answer 
for. We shan’t have recourse to a miracle to open his eyes. He 
has Moses and the Prophets, and to them he has appealed : by 
them he must be taught, if at all. As ceremonies — next to cos- 
tumes — are allowed to be our forte, the reader must not be sur- 
prised if we have presently to describe that of our hero’s circum- 
cision. We engage to do it with the most perfect delicacy, and 
meanwhile must accompany him to a scene which certainly looks 
that way. 

In the afternoon Alban dressed himself in his new clothes, 
just sent home from the tailor’s. In pumps and tights, and an 
embroidered waistcoat, his own mother would scarcely know her 


ALBAN. 


227 


son. He throws the new Spanish cloak gracefully over one 
shoulder, and enters a hackney-coach. 

It rolled slowly down Green wich-street, entered State-street, 
while the waters of the chilly bay still gleamed with the dull red 
of the Western sky, and stopped before a large irregular house, 
following the curve of the street, with a deep balcony-portico, 
and white marble steps. It was in this mansion — once his father’s 
— that our hero was born, and it was one of the homes of his 
childhood. The door-plate now bears, simply “ Seixas.” A , 
servant of peculiar physiognomy admits him, and asking “ Mishter 
Atherton ?” admits him into a drawing-room, around which he 
throws a glance of curiosity. 

On a yellow satin divan, extending the whole length of the 
room, on the side opposite the door and old-fashioned chimney, re- 
clined a man in the prime of life. ‘His waistcoat was finer than 
Alban’s, and a mass of brilliants glittered on his bosom like a star. 
He had gentle black eyes, black pencilled eyebrows, jet curls, and 
beard, fringing fine, but characteristic features. He was lion- 
chested. and narrow-hipped, but stooped slightly in the shoulders. 

“ The salutation of peace,” said he, smiling, as he sprang up, 
and took Atherton’s hand. “ You are in good time. We will 
order dinner at once, that we may discuss it at our leisure, since 
we are going to the Opera afterwards. I am sorry that Mrs. 
Seixas cannot appear, but my sister will play hostess in her 
stead. — Miriam !” 

The place of the folding-door — between white Corinthian 
columns — was hung with a crimson velvet curtain looped up with 
a cord and heavy tassel of gold bullion. At the call of Mr. Seixas 
a young lady presented herself beneath this rich drapery. She 
was apparently a year or two younger than Alban, tall, elegantly 
formed, and perfectly beautiful, although in a very peculiar style. 
What Alban first noticed, however, was her garb, which was 
different from the fashion of the day. It was a light green bro- 
cade of India, the gold pattern predominating so as almost to hide 
the ground, and fitting closely to the shape to the lowest point of 


228 


ALBAN, 


the natural waist. The neck was cut in an indescribahle curve, 
to uncover just so much of the bust as was beautiful to show 
without any immodesty, and the short loose sleeves were looped 
over gems upon each polished shoulder. For the lady’s figure, 
notwithstanding her manifest youth, was the deep-hreasted, uni- 
versally-undulating beauty of the Orient. Her hair — purple 
black — was in plain bands, without a single ringlet, secured by a 
gold comb, from which a white lace veil fell nearly to her feet. 
And she bore a jewelled fan. Her face must be imagined ; it 
was on the softest Jewish model, and of a rich golden paleness. 
Never were seen such long, long-eye-lashed black eyes, liquid in 
their glance, yet virginal and calm. Alban had never felt so sud- 
den and vivid an admiration for one of her sex before. He had 
heard of love at first sight, and now he experienced it. 


ALBAN . 


229 


CHAPTER V. 

We must retrace our steps a little, and as the way our hero is 
going on does not please us, turn our attention to the more inter- 
esting course of Mary De Groot. 

We take her, then, on the first day after her return home, at 
the hour between luncheon and dinner, when Alban, having con- 
cluded his long call, had left the house. It is a beautiful afternoon, 
she dons her Broadway walking gear, and in the accustomed 
liberty of a young Hew York lady, sallies forth alone for a walk. 

She proceeded down the Avenue towards Washington Square 
— then an almost naked rectangle. There were no churches on 
the Fifth Avenue or near it, where now so many cluster. There 
were none on the Square, nor had the white marble turrets of the 
University yet risen, nor did its chapel window glimmer through 
trees. She turned into Broadway and walked down one or two 
squares. There was a church on the corner ; a Gothic church of 
gray rough stone, flanked by grim towers. The ways of New 
York were then simpler than now, and Broadway “ so high up” 
as Houston was quiet in a way that cannot now be imagined. 
Mary stopped at the iron railing and gave a wistful glance to the 
stern church front. Usually an inscription tells to what faith the 
edifice is dedicated, but here was none. 

“ I Sec no cross on the gable-peak. And if it were a Catholic 
church I guess there would be images of saints in the niches. I 
bet any thing it is Episcopal.” 

Good reasoning in ’35, but it would not serve in ’51. A cross 
on a gable is no more a safe guide, nor yet a marble saint looking, 
down from the niche of a medieval tower. We do not say that 
there is not yet a physiognomy by which the pinchbeck religion 
that takes so with our, fashionables, may be detected even at first 
sight, and distinguished from the faith it imitates. 

20 


230 


ALBAN. 


Our young friend might have consulted a directory, but she 
forgot there was such a thing, or she might have asked one of her 
father’s Irish servants, if she had not been restrained by a feeling 
of delicacy. She thought of inquiring in a shop, or of some 
passer-by, for the nearest Catholic church, and then again an in- 
vincible timidity prevented her. She began to reflect. The 
Catholics were poor* — foreigners — Ii'ish — were they not ? Their 
churches were not to be looked for in Broadway, but in some 
obscure district. Mary had an idea that such a region lay on the 
east of Broadway, but she had a fear of wandering in that 
direction. It was a terra incognita to the young Knickerbocker, 
and contained, she knew, some dreadful places where a modest 
girl’s foot could not pass without danger. And yet surely it was 
safe so high up. Lafayette Place was east of Broadway ; so 
was Bond-street. She had friends living in both ; they were 
fashionable streets. From Bond to Houston, on the corner of 
which she stood, was only two squares ; she would venture to 
walk a little way down Houston-street, east. 

Indeed, it was rather a nice street ; a stable in the first “ block,” 
but that was common in cross streets. At the first corner she 
stops, and looks up and down Crosby. She sees no church, but 
the High School, and troops of boys (for it is just three r. m.) 
running and shouting. She has a mind to retreat, but they are 
only bd ys, and she crosses Crosby and boldly pushes forward to 
the next corner. 

What sees she ? Not the great silver door-plate of St. Catha- 
rine’s Convent of the Sisters of Mercy, (for neither Convent nor 
Institution yet existed,) but on the lower corner of the opposite 
square in Mulberry, in a walled churchyard, she saw the rear 
gable of a Gothic edifice. It was of stone, plain and high, but 
faced below by a wooden lean-to of octagon shape, with a wooden 
porch and steps. The body of the church was hidden by the 
houses in Mulberry-street, but over the roof-line of the latter 
rose a nondescript wooden steeple, or pinnacle, surmounted by a 
great gilt cross. The sign of salvation, glittering in the afternoon 


ALBAN. 


231 


sun which smote the roof and upper portion of the ehurch, ex- 
tended its arms brightly and boldly against the blue sky. 

So Mary turned into Mulberry-street and walked slowly down 
the square, looking at the church and its lofty, glittering cross. 

“ How impossible to mistake it !” she thought. “I need no 
one to tell me that this is one of the homes of our mother — sancta 
mater ecclesia- — humble, yet exalted in the eyes of her God. 
Surely an angel guided my steps.” 

A man in a long surtout came out of Prince-street and 
crossed Mulberry in front of her. He turned into Mulberry, 
walked rapidly along the church-yard wall to the back entrance of 
the cathedral, ascended the wooden steps, and disappeared in the 
porch. 

The steps were shackling and creaked under Mary’s light foot. 
The outer door of the hurricane porch (as it is called) was closed 
by a pulley. The inner one was heavy, but yielded to a resolute 
push, and she found herself in a small chapel. The first object 
that struck her eye was a wooden Baptismal Font against the 
w'all. At the altar end of the chapel was a door that stood ajar. 
Seeing no one, she proceeded thither and tapped. No answer ; 
and she ventured to push the door open, and then to enter. It 
was a carpeted room with a fire. It contained some large ward- 
robes, as they seemed, of dark wood, a crucifix against the wall, 
and a confessional in a corner. Then she knew that it was a 
place where women might come. Father Smith and the New 
Haven sacristy recurred to her mind. Next she perceived another 
door which she knew must lead into the body of the church ; but 
as the adventurous young girl approached to try it, it opened and 
the man in the long surtout appeared. His face, now that she 
saw him uncovered, gave her a great surprise : it was the New 
Haven missionary. 

“ Father Smith,” she joyfully exclaimed. 

The priest did not remember Mary, and intimated as much with 
great courtesy. She reminded him of his third mass on Christmas 
Day. 


232 


ALBAN. 


“ Ah, it is the young New Haven convert,” said the missionary. 
'* I should not have known you had not you spoken first, my young 
lady. So you have come to New York. I suppose you have been 
received into the Church.” 

“ No, sir, I am waiting a month as you directed me, studying 
my catechism and other books.” 

“You have seen no clergyman here then ?” 

“ We arrived from New Haven but yesterday.” 

“ You had better see the Bishop or the Vicar General. I sup- 
pose you are in the cathedral parish.” 

“ Whatever you tell me. Father Smith, I will do.” 

“ I was just going to call on the Bishop. I will mention youi 
case to him. What is your name, my dear young lady ?” 

He took down her name, age, and place of abode. 

“ Go into the church and say your prayers,” said the missionary, 
“ while I see the Bishop. In a short time I will bring or send you 
word.” 

At present the cathedral extends hack to Mulberry-street, and 
the lean-to chapel no longer exists. The space thus gained affords 
a deep and spacious sanctuary ; hut at that time the sanctuary 'was 
miserably contracted, and the pews were pushed to the very rails. 
Mary found the church empty, and most of the pews locked. She 
discovered at last one that w^as open, and entering, placed herself 
gladly on her knees. This cathedral was very unlike those beau- 
tiful Flemish interiors in her father’s gallery from which she had 
drawn her principal notion of a Catholic church. Over the altar 
was a painted perspective that carried the church back like a deep 
choir, closed by a calvary. If this did not please our young friend’s 
refined taste, it did not long arrest her attention, caught by a reality 
which makes us forget all outward tawdriness, all poverty. A lamp 
hung burning in the empty church before the tabernacle, and 
Mary now knew w'hat that meant. The thought of that heavenly 
presence had not occurred to her before. She put down her head 
and adored. So low, however, was then the tone of Catholic feel- 
ing, (to borrow a phrase from a recent sect-movement,) or so great 




ALBAN . 


233 


the poverty of Catholics in New York, that there was nothing else 
in the church to excite either interest or devotion — not even a pic- 
ture of our Lady. But the young convert drew from her bosom her 
mother’s rosary and began to say her beads. She was just finish- 
ing the “ Sorrowful Mysteries,” with her eye fixed on the calvary, 
when the sacristy door opened, and a female came out attired in 
deep black — as one might fancy a Quakeress in mourning. As 
soon as her eye rested on Miss De Groot she came forward. In 
passing before the altar this dark-robed person turned and sank on 
one knee. She uttered Mary’s name, and receiving a word of 
assent, with a look and tone of sweet courtesy invited her to come 
to the sacristy. Trembling, though glad, Mary followed her dark- 
stoled guide, who, as they went before the altar again, again bent 
the knee to the earth. Mary followed her example, for she w'as 
not ignorant why it was done. Her new companion made her sit 
by the sacristy fire. They were alone. 

“ You desire baptism. Miss De Groot ?” inquired the dark- 
habited lady, with a glance that habitually, it would seem, sought 
the ground. 

“ I do,” replied Mary, fastening her earnest eyes on the face of 
the questioner. 

“ You are sure you were never baptized ?” 

“ I have always been told so.” 

“ I suppose you can say the Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, the Hail 
Mary, the Commandments, and the Conjiteor” 

Mary answered like a little girl, by reciting each formulary as 
it was named. The Sister smiled, and asked how many sacra- 
ments there w'ere, whether all the seven were instituted by Jesus 
Christ, and how that was proved from Scripture. Mary recited the 
texts. « 

“ As you have been bred a Protestant, I suppose you arc very 
familiar with the Scriptures ?” said the Sister. 

“ 0 dear, yes ! I know the greater part of the Bible almost by 
heart.” 

“ That’s more than I do,” answered the Sister, smiling “ Was 
20 * 


> ■ 


V * 
T . 


I 




234 


ALBAN. 


it ill the perusal of the Scriptures, Miss De Groot, that you became 
convinced of the truth of the Catholic religion ?” 

“ 0 no, indeed !” 

“Well I think that without the lamp of faith the sacred 
volume must be a labyrinth to the inquirer,” said the Sister, look- 
ing up with a bright intelligence, but immediately withdrawing 
her glance. “ Whence do you obtain faith. Miss De Groot ?” 

“ From the Church,” said Mary. 

“ What is the Church ?” 

“ The society of the faithful under legitimate pastors,” respond- 
ed the catechumen, following her catechism. 

“ Then from what part of the Church do you obtain faith ?” 

“ From the pastors.” — “ Right. Faith cometh by hearing ; and 
hoio shall they hear icithout a preacher ? And how shall they 
j)reach unless they be sent ? What is not proposed to us to be- 
lieve by an authority appointed by God, and secured from error by 
His promise, can never be the object of faith. Hence we Catho- 
lics say and prove that Protestants, so far as they are such, can 
have no faith, but only opinion. However, the grace to believe 
what the Church teaches — whence comes it?” — “From God 
alone.” — “ Right again. And by what means do we obtain it 
from God ?” — “ By prayer and the sacraments.” — “ Right. By 
the sacrament of baptism more particularly. For though none 
but believers are to be baptized, the sacrament infuses the habit 
of faith, which before was only a precarious act. You believe, 
but you have in a manner no right Jo faith, and except in virtue 
of the sacrament you cannot retain faith.” 

The Sister of Charity had a pleasant face, though not beautiful. 
Her complexion had that peculiar brilliancy which is so often seen 
under the veil of the Virgins of the Church. Her eyes, as we have 
said, were habitually downcast, yet with an occasional glance of 
singular penetration. Her manner was refined, her voice sweet, 
the accent slightly foreign ; — it might be French or the high Irish, 
wdiich is the most pleasing and thorough-bred in the world. She 
touched the rosary which hung at her girdle. — “ You know what 


ALBAN. ‘ 


235 


this is ? And how to nse it ? Oh, you say the beads daily, do 
you ?” She regarded Mary with an expression of great tender- 
ness, which, however, she immediately checked. “ It would be a 
sin,” she continued,- “ to keep you from baptism. Father Smith 
mentioned that you had no Catholic friends. Should it be neces- 
sary I would present you at the font, although it is against our 
rules.” 

Mary gently hid her face in her hands. 

“ The Bishop has requested Father Smith to receive you as soon 
as he finds you prepared,” added the Sister. “ But here comes the 
good father himself.” — Father Smith entered. — “ She knows her 
catechism, father. Her faith is rational as well as firm, and she 
prays, above all.” 

“ Have you a great desire for baptism ?” inquired the priest, 
standing by the fire, and looking down upon her tranquilly. “ I de- 
sire it,” replied Mary, in tears, “ more than any thing else in the 
world.” 

“ Why do you ?” 

Mary looked up. — “ Because unless we are horn of water arid 
the Holy Ghost we cannot enter the kingdom of God” 

“ You are then formally a postulant for salvation — ” glancing 
from her to the Sister. ” We cannot refuse you what you ask. 
God would require your soul at our hands.” 

He inquired about her father. Mary frankly stated that her 
father knew and strongly disapproved her intention of becoming a 
Catholic, that she believed he would absolutely refuse his consent 
to her being baptized, and that she would prefer not to ask it. 
When it was done, and could not be undone, she meant to tell him 
at once, and did not doubt to obtain his forgiveness. The mission- 
ary sat down and questioned her on the nature of the sacrament 
she was about to receive, but rather in the way of instruction than 
to elicit her knowledge. 

Did she undei’stand why she needed baptism at all ? He asked 
because it was an error of the sect in which she had been bred, to 
suppose that the human being was born innocent. 


236 


ALBAN. 


“ Your soul was created by God, and you may say that it 
came pure and good from the hands of its Creator ; but that 
which is born of the flesh is flesh. Child of Adam, you did not 
receive at the moment of your conception that which is the com- 
plement of a moral creature, the divine life of grace. Naked 
and stripped of original justice and sanctity you were born ; and 
hence, ignorant of God, perverse in will, weak in virtue, a captive 
to the desires of the flesh and fleshly mind, a seeker of pleasure and 
transitory good : which is concupiscence. Humiliating as this 
fact is, it is true ; and up to this date you have done nothing, nor 
can you ever do any thing, to merit that God should bestow upon 
you the grace which in a moment can efface it all. If you had 
died in infancy or in youth, while yet unconscious' of this misery, 
you could never have seen God ; and if old enough to have com- 
mitted actual sins, you must have endured for ever their punish- 
ment, according to the greatness of their demerit. Now then you 
see why you need baptism. It is the womb of a new birth, where- 
in that which was born of Adam may be born again of Christ, and^ 
the soul united to sinful flesh may receive its true life — the Holy 
Spirit which Adam forfeited.” 

To this the young lady listened with an air of quiet assent and 
pious interest. 

Did she understand, then, pursued the missionary, with delib- 
eration, that in baptism, provided she received it with suitable 
dispositions, all the sins of her past life would be entirely washed 
away, together with that sin in M'hich she had been conceived — 
the original defect and guilt of her human nature — so that she 
would become in an instant perfectly pure and holy, and if she 
were to die that moment, would go immediately to heaven, and 
see God eternally as he is, by the sole merit of faith ; God, that 
is, crowning his own free gift by a free and infinite reward ? Did 
she understand this ? 

“ I understand it,” said Mary, tremulously. 

Did she understand, moreover, that this sacrament, thus 
worthily received, (for that was a condition,) would change her in 


ALBAN. 


237 


an instant from a child of wrath into a child of grace, infuse into 
her soul the justice of God, (that, namely, whereby He makes us 
inwardly and truly just,) illuminate it by His light, inflame it with 
His charity, implanting the habit of all virtues ; that her very 
body would become the temple of God, her members the limbs 
and members of Christ the Incarnate Son, the same Spirit inhabit- 
ing her mortal frame and taking possession of the interior recesses 
of her heart, which dwelt in and quickened, sanctified and united 
r- to’the person of the Word, the adorable Humanity of the Son of 
God? 

“ The Holy Trinity will come and dwell with you : do you 
understand that ?” demanded the priest. 

“ Yes,” murmured the catechumen. 

Did she also know — the priest’s voice lowered a little — that the 
sacrament which thus effaced all sin and replenished the soul with 
the Author of sanctity Himself, would leave concupiscence within 
her, wounded but not destroyed ; whence must spring a daily, 
hourly conflict^ — a conflict in Avhich she would be liable to fall, 
but in which if she overcame she would be croicned ? This was 
serious : let her think of it well. 

Mary wept. 

“ In what degree the sacrament of baptism may diminish con- 
cupiscence, depends in part on the dispositions more or less perfect 
with which you receive it, on the fervor of your prayers, and the 
simplicity of your intention before and after. The sevenfold grace 
which the Holy Ghost inspires in confirmation is a sevenfold pan- 
oply against this enemy as well as every other. The daily, super- 
substantial bread of the Divine Eucharist will be a remedy for 
infirmity as well as a perennial source of life ; and finally, even a 
fall will not be hopeless, for the Sacrament of Penance remains. 
Still I must tell you that none of these things will change your 
nature, my dear child, nor your acquired habits ; but they will 
give you a life and a strength above nature, by virtue of which, if 
you will, you may, while in the flesh, live not after the flesh but 
after the Spirit. But to do so is not easy. It will cost you much 




238 


ALBAN. 


suffering — internal and external, many a hard battle with yourself; 
nor must you count on a single day’s remission of the struggle 
while you live. It is a narrow way : you may easily miss it. It 
is a rough way : you may easily be discouraged by it. It is the 
only way : you must persevere in it till the soul and body are 
parted by death, or both are lost for ever. I rejoice, and yet I 
tremble, when I see one like you who has been nursed in the lap 
of luxury, and before whom the world spreads a thousand fascina- 
tions, called — mysteriously called, as few of the rich and noble are 
— to enter upon this rugged path, which leads indeed — but through 
much tribulation — to the kingdom of God.” 

“ I am called, father : let me enter it,” said Mary, sinking on 
her knees by the side of her chair. 

“ You must spend some days, my daughter, as our holy mother 
the Church enjoins, in exercises of piety, viz., fasting, alms-giving, 
and prayers, which you know from your catechism are the three 
eminent good works. It was by these that Cornelius the centurion, 
while^ yet a heathen, gained such favor with God that an angel 
appeared to him by whom he was directed to Peter to learn the 
terms of salvation. At your age fasting must be practised with 
great moderation. Sister Theresa will suggest to you what is 
prudent ; if you can deny yourself some delicacy which you would 
buy from your own purse, so as to give the money to the poor, it 
will be very acceptable to God. It is probable you have not many 
grievous sins to charge yourself with, but you must call them to 
mind, whatever they are, and be very penitent for them. Re.solve, 
by the aid of God’s grace, never to offend him deliberately again 
as long as you live, and remember constantly what you are about 
to do — to renounce Satan Avith all his works and pomps. Your 
own will, the world’s vanities, the desires of the mind and the 
flesh, are no more to be your rule ; but you are to mortify your 
passions, to imitate the humility of your Saviour, and, like Him, 
live only to do the will of God. Will you eirdeavor in this way 
to dispose yourself to receive the grace of baptism ?” 

“ I will, father,” said Mary, still humbly kneeling, 


ALBAN. 


239 


The priest made the sign, of blessing over her, and gently 
bade her rise. 

“ There is a mass at the cathedral every morning at half-past 
six, another at seven, and by the mercy of God I shall say one 
here every day this week at half-past seven. Now you can do as 
your piety and your circumstances allow as regards coming on the 
intermediate days, but on Saturday morning, if you will be here 
as early as seven, with any of your friends, or alone. Sister Theresa, 
if no one else can be thought of in the mean time, will be your 
godmother, and I will baptize you. Probably the Bishop will 
give you confirmation immediately after. At all events you will 
stay to hear mass, and make your first communion. And would, 
my child, that I were in your place.” 

Sister Theresa led away Miss De Groot. They pause and 
converse in the chapel. It is growing dusk, and a little lamp, 
which Mary observed not before, gleams out upon the almost 
naked altar. Above the low, plain tabernacle is an image, carved 
in wood, of the Mother of God. The meek brow, on which the 
altar lamp at her feet casts upward an effect of light like life, is 
crowned with white roses. The two females implore the protec- 
tion of the dueen of Saints. The young convert indeed felt a 
thrill of indescribable joy for the first lime to see Mary thus pub- 
licly honored. But her father’s dinner hour was close at hand. 

It M^as important not to be called upon to explain where she had 
been. So she kissed the Sister of Charity, and sped away, light ^ 
of fiK't and rejoicing in heart. 

No one insulted by word or look the beautiful and well-attired 
young lady, threading so rapidly and fearlessly the half-twilight, 
half-lamp lit streets. It was a familiar sight in New York, 
and by no means an unfamiliar circumstance to herself But the 
last lonely quarter of a mile after she had left the houses behind, 
was more nervous, and our dear heroine almost ran over this part 
of the way, till she set her foot, reassured, on the broad pavement 
before her father’s stately mansion, 


240 


ALBAN. 


^ CHAPTER VI. 

It was a cold, stormy morn of mid-winter, when, ^.t about a 
quarter past six, the young convert stole down the private stair 
and let herself out of the house by a side-door. There she paused. 
The street was dark. The line of lamps down the lonely Avenue 
rendered it more gloomy. The young lady was afraid to venture 
forth. 

A man passed, going towards the city, and walking fa,st. He * 
was attired as a laborer, and heeded not, if he perceived, the female 
form in the basement doorway of the great house. Then a milk- 
cart rattled by. Not being given to foolish fears, Mary began to 
accuse herself of timidity. She stepped forth and walked on quite 
bravely. But she sees a man approaching in the opposite direction, 
she becomes nervous and retreats to her doorway. The individual 
approached. His appearance, as he passed under the street-lamp, 
was that of a gentleman, and he slackened his pace on seeing a girl 
in a doorway at that hour. He stopped at the court-yard and spoke 
to her, whereupon Mary hastily retired into the house, nervously 
bolting the door. The stranger impudently wdiistled a tune and 
sauntered on. The young lady opened the door ajar, but dared not 
come out again from her place of security, until she distinguished 
the voices of some women. They were approaching rapidly, and 
speaking in an unmistakable national accent. She went out to 
them as far as the gate. They were hurrying past. 

“ How far are you going, ma’am, please ?” sa'id Mary, with 
quickness. 

“ Sure we’re goin’ down the street a piece, ma’am.” 

“ May I keep along with you ?” asked Mary, hoping it might 
prove a good piece. “ I am afraid to go alone.” 

“ Ye’re entirely welcome, and any way the street is free. But 
it’s late we are this minute.” 


ALBAN. 


241 


They strode on as fast as she could well walk, though active of 
limb. 

“ It’s mighty discreet ye are to want company,” said the 
woman who had answered her. “ I suppose ye work for a 
milliner ?” 

“ Not exactly,” said Mary. “ I am not going to my work.” 

“ May be ye’ve a place in yon great house ?” 

“ Yes, I have a place there at present.” 

“ But ye’re afraid of losing it. Well, there’s always more to be 
had in this counthry, they say. But they’re not all good places 
by a great dale. Here’s me daughter has jist lift one where she 
got siven dollars a month, becase she thought better to lose a place 
than her sowl, let alone her body into the bargain. The thrials a 
poor girl has to go through in most rispictable families from them 
as should know better is dreadful. Lord have mercy on us !” 
sighing. “ ’Tis a wicked city, as Father Murphy tould her at con- 
fession, jist to encourage her like, and the poor Irish servant girls, 
says he, is what saves it from bein’ burrent by a shower of fire and 
brimstone like Sodom and Gomorrhay.” 

“I dare say he spoke truth there,” observed Mary. 

“ Och !” sighing again, “ it’s likely enough ye know the thruth 
of it as well as us or better, if ye live in yon fine house. Ye seem 
a purty gintale little body, and a sweet voice ye’ve got any way : 
I wish ye mayn’t know the thruth of what I’ve been sayin’, too 
well. Ye’ve not the honor and advantage of bein’ a Catholic, I 
suppose ; but keep y’r innocence, and may be it’s yourself that will 
be one before ye die.” 

“ I dare say you are going to the cathedral to hear mass,” said 
Mary. 

“ Indeed, ma’am, ye niver spoke a truer word in y’r life. It’s 
jist to the cathaydral we’re goin’.” 

“ I am going there too for the same purpose,” said Mary. “ I 
call myself a Catholic.” ^ 

“ And is it a Roman Catholic that you mane ?” returned her 

new acquaintance, with characteristic caution. 

ai 


242 


ALBAN. 


“ Yes, a Roman Catholic, or what should I be g’oing to mass 
for?” 

“ Indeed, and that’s true, but there’s people that wants us to 
take their little books and says they ‘ call themselves Catholics,’ but 
the Lord knows that nobody else iver called them so,” said Mrs. 
Dolman, whose acute ear had noticed both the unfamiliar expres- 
sion and the young lady’s accent. 

The discovery somewhat altered her companions’ notion of her. 
If she was a Catholic and going to mass, her being in the street at 
that early hour was not so positive proof of belonging to their own 
class or one not much above it. It w^as now clear twilight. Ten 
or fifteen minutes had made a great difference. The Irish mother 
and daughter regarded the young lady with curiosity. Mary s 
courage and dignity came back with the first ray of the ever pro- 
tecting light. She asked her companions where they lived, and 
learned that it w’as in a shanty on the Avenue, near her father’s 
freestone palace, and that they went to mass at that hour every 
morning. She engaged them to stop for her. The old woman 
began to apologize for speaking too fr'eely to the young lady, but 
Maiy cut her short. They reached the cathedral, which w^as 
crowded — at least in the aisles ; — for it was a day of obligation — 
the great feast of Epiphany. With some difficulty Mary made her 
way to a pew, one of the few open so early. 

Ihe seven-o’clock mass was said by an old ecclesiastic, who 
entered in a trailing purple cassock and rochet of very rich lace, 
and who put on the vestments for mass at the altar itself. It was 
the first low mass Mary had heard ; it seemed to her very rapid. 
A considerable number of persons received communion, and among 
them one of her new Irish friends — the daughter. Mary could not 
help noticing this girl’s absorbed attention, kneeling on the floor of 
'•the aisle just before her. The mother, except at the gospels and 
creed, remained nearly prostrate on the floor, and when her daughter 
went up to the rail, sobbed aloud. Mary observed how wretchedly 
they both were clad. 

” The life that dwells in those poor creatures,” thought she ‘‘is 


ALBAN. 


243 


the very life of my Lord : when shall it dwell in me ! The Star 
which I saw in the East, has again appeared. I rejoice with the 
Magi. I have found the young Child with Mary His mother, in 
the House of Bread. But come and inhabit my heart, 0 divine 
Babe ! Expectation of the Gentiles, I expect thee. Messiah, 
King of Israel ! I long for thee, as wanderers long for the morning 
light. 0 Sun of Justice, arise on my soul !” 

She was full of ardent desires : the mass intensely excited 
them. ^ She would gladly have waited for another; indeed, it 
seemed to her that she could hear mass for ever, — never quit her 
knees before the Tabernacle. She dared not stay, however, but 
while the purple-stoled ecclesiastic was unvesting at the altar, 
went by lowly genuflecting, openly and yet unnoticed, with deep 
and safe feeling shared by many and deemed natural by all, and 
so passed out by the chapel, leaving her humble friends, one at 
her thanksgiving, the other at her beads. The city, adorer of 
Mammon, is now awake. 

Miss De Groot’s morning excursion attracted no notice at 
home ; for she had been accustomed to walk before breakfast in 
the autumn, after she came from boarding-school to reside with 
her parents in their new house. Sometimes it would be on Wash- 
ington Square, then not very inviting ; sometimes down a cross 
street to the still beautiful river-side ; or again, beyond Broadway, 
where at that time a winding road passed by gray rocks and 
golden groves. To have gone forth a half hour or so earlier, to 
attend church with some hundreds of poor people, did not consti- 
tute a very grievous offence, and the father whose daughter is 
guilty' of no greater indiscretion, may congratulate himself 

Mary w'as a sensible girl, in spite of her popish flights. She - 
was aware that no act of piety she could perform would be. so ^ 
distasteful to her parents as fasting. Much, therefore, as she 
desired to fast on the days preceding her baptism, she resolved to 
do nothing that could attract their attention. Nevertheless, by 
a holy artifice which saints have practised, she contrived- to go 
without her breakfast every morning. One day she had it sent 


244 


ALBAN. 


to her room ; another she amused herself during the entire meal 
with reading the newspaper aloud ; the last day, which was Fri- 
day, she had no need to dissemble the matter. As for luncheon, 
she could make it as sparing as she liked, and confined herself 
to bread and water for the quality, which cost her much faintness 
and headache. At dinner she made amends, (for a growing girl 
must eat,) hut (except one day) on fish and vegetables ; flatulent, 
unsatisfying food she found it. Altogether, the flesh suflered, 
and it is to be hoped that the spirit profited. 

After breakfast on Wednesday morning, Mary tied on her 
bonnet, and visited the shanty of her Irish friends — a low cabin 
of boards, ten feet by twelve, with one small window, through 
a pane of which the stove-pipe made its exit. Like Mr. De 
Groot’s freestone mansion, it occupied an entire square ; but in 
lieu of the high- walled garden planted with fruit-trees, and 
traversed by lines of box, the circling court-yard with its shrubs 
and frequent evergreens, making even winter cheerful, and the 
conservatory glowing with red cactus, and a hundred other 
bright-flowered plants, and exhaling on a sunny noon the fragrance 
of the myrtle, the rose, and the orange-tree — around the widow 
Dolman’s shanty extended a bare stony lot, fenceless and rude, 
where not a blade of grass would grow even in summer, the soil, 
and many a foot more of the old earth, having been carted away 
in grading the Avenue. 

The widow Dolman had six children, of whom Margaret, the 
girl who had received at mass, was the eldest, and about seventeen. 
Three more were of the same sex, with a good leap from Margaret 
to the next sister, and the two boys were quite little. They were a 
bare-footed, ragged set, not over clean, with long uncombed bail 
flying loose on the shoulders of the girls ; but all had good features, 
though wild ; and Margaret was pretty ; her poor calico frock, and 
the scant under-clothing which made it hang like a rag about her, 
betrayed a rounded, healthy shape. The shanty contained neither 
table nor chairs, nor yet a bedstead. The beds were miserably 
huddled into a corner, and the younger children sat upon them. 


ALBAN. 


245 


To Miss De Groot they offered a trunk. Yet there was a cradle 
where the baby nestled, (a child under two years,) and with it the 
youngest girl, a poor little creature barely four, white as chalk 
with chronic dysentery. And yet this family, poor as they were, 
had taken in out of charity a woman poorer still, a common street 
beggar who sought cold victuals from door to door, and who with 
her child of seven, both in the unequivocal garb of beggary, with 
their mop hair and dirt-brown garments, the child’s dark skin / 
showing through her rags, cowered over their bag of broken meat 
in a corner of the shanty. The young visitor was shocked at the 
all but nakedness of the girls. 

“ How you must have suffered this cold weather ! And you, 
Margaret, are hardly decent.” 

Margaret began to cry. 

“ And indeed, miss, I would keep rneself dacent if I could.” 

“ Och, and I must tell ye the thruth,” said Mrs. Dolman, 

“ Margaret has gone and pawned her petticoats (beggin’ ye’r pardon 
for mentionin’ them,) to pay for doctor’s stuff for this one,” point- 
ing to the pallid little creature in the cradle. “And I’ve been 
tryin’ to get some lady to take her sisters there, for it’s too hard 
upon rneself to fill so many mouths.” 

“ How can you expect a lady to take such dirty little girls ?” 
demanded Mary, with quickness. “ Even if they must go in 
rags, and without petticoats, Mrs. Dolman, their faces might be 
washed and their hair combed.” 

“ And indeed, miss, we’ve niver a comb lift, for we’ve been 
sellin’ and pawnin’ these three months, and I not able* to get 
work. And it is of washin’ ye were spakin’ ? Sure there’s 
nothin’ lift to hold water, barrin’ the one mug, and the pot to 
boil the pratees in.” 

“ And the pratees — you have enough of them at least ?” 

“ Troth, miss, there’s niver been the day yet but we’ve had 
some, let alone that we mightn’t always have what we wanted. 

But thank God for not littin’ us starve either with cowld or 
hunger.” 


2V 


246 * . ALBAN. 

And how had they been reduced to these straits was what the 
visitor wanted to know : for it seemed to her almost incredible 
that such destitution existed. The thing began about six months 
before, when the father Avas brought home on a shutter, killed by 
the falling in of a bank : — an Irish laborer, honest, industrious, and 
thoughtless ; a trifle fond of the whiskey, and ready, under such 
circumstances, for a row ; given to hearing mass outside the 
church when he might as well have gone in, negligent about his 
“ duty,” but chaste from infancy to manhood, and most happy in 
having made his Easter only a fortnight before his unexpected 
death. For the first three months after this bereavement they got 
on pretty well, for Margaret had a place, and a good share of her 
earnings went to support the shanty establishment. Mrs. Dolman 
got some chores, and they trusted in God. Then Margaret, Avho 
like her more favored visitor, was just budding into womanhood, 
began to be tried. She did not mind the impertinence of the 
young gentlemen in the family ; she told her mistress, who put a 
stop to it, at least to what could not be endured. But to go to 
mass on Sunday morning she staid at home all the Sunday after- 
noons ; — the time that girls at service generally prefer going out, 
for it is a time of visiting, walking with beaux, &c. Thus she 
was left alone in the kitchen, and her master, feigning an excuse 
for not accompanying his wife and daughters to church, used to 
come down and attempt to corrupt the innocence of this young 
maid-servant. He offered her money and presents of finery, such 
as other girls of her rank wore, but which she could not afford, 
(for he* knew where the wages went,) and offered to clothe her 
sisters and get them places, and all that ; while Margaret, as ap- 
peared from her own artless story, resisted in the most feminine 
and gentle way, weeping, and representing to him the wickedness 
of his conduct. Finally, after telling her story to Father Murphy 
one Saturday afternoon, she left her place, giving so short notice 
that her mistress refused her a character and kept back part of 
her wages. Since then, she had been an inmate of the crowded 
and dirty shanty, and a full sharer of its privations. 


ALBAN. 


f 

247 


Our delicate Broadway promenaders will of course laugh at 
Mary De Groot for parting with one of her petticoats to Margaret 
on the spot, in a fervor of charity. The next thing was to get 
the poor girl’s clothes out of pawn, and provide the whole family 
with the means of cleanliness at least. Mary’s pocket money was 
nearly exhausted, when all was accomplished which she deemed 
absolutely necessary. To put the girls in such decent trim that 
they could reasonably hope for admission into proper families, 
seemed the wisest outlay she could make for them. The grateful 
Margaret accompanied the young lady home to receive some ad- 
ditional presents of cast-ofF clothing. Mrs. De Groot’s carriage 
was at the door, it being the day and nearly the hour when Mary 
and her stepmother called on Mrs. Atherton. The astonished 
Irish girl followed her young benefactress to her apartment. 
Strange contrast to the board shanty, that marble hall and broad 
staircase ; nor less the young lady’s own room, with its rich old 
furniture, its bath-closet open, streams of hot and cold water 
steaming and dashing into the marble basin ; the tall mahogany 
wardrobe agape, and the well-stocked, nicely-arranged drawers ; 
the toilet’s elegant apparatus displayed : — for Mary had to dress 
in haste, while Margaret Dolman, staring around, ate up her 
luncheon with an avidity painful to see. 


248 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Our hero and his parents appeared punctually at five on Thursday, 
at the mansion in the Avenue. A bright sea-coal fire illumined 
the innermost saloon, and the Rev, Dr. Fluent, whom they were 
invited to meet, was already there, sitting bolt upright on a sofa 
of silver brocade. He was a gentleman of striking physiognomy 
and high-bred air, and his black, erect form, relieved against the 
throne-like seat he had taken, was quite imposing. Mrs. Fluent 
was nooked with their hostess in the corner of another, a retiring 
woman, remarkably pretty withal, as your ministers’ wives gen- 
erally are, and no wonder, since the ministers, if at all popular, 
usually have their pick among the young lambs — we mean the 
young ladies — of their flocks. At first there was no one else 
present, and the conversation ran very orthodoxly, the reverend 
doctor pretty much engrossing it. He spoke en passant, but with 
unction, of a revival in which he had been engaged ; and Alban, 
who knew what revivals were, hardly listened, till the doctor 
diverged to a paper conflict into which he had been drawn with 
a high-church bishop, wherein, from his own account, confirmed 
by Ml'S. De Groot, our hero would have supposed the former to 
have been completely victorious, and to have demolished for ever 
the figment of Apostolic Succession, if he had not that very morn- 
ing heard the very contrary asserted by his cousins the Greys. 
Then the doctor spoke of Old School and New School, (or “ Twee- 
dledum and Tweedledee,” as he termed them ;) of Low Calvinism 
and High Calvinism ; and of the Hopkinsian tenet once popular 
in New England, or that it was necessary to be willing to be 
damned for the glory of God, which he entirely exploded. This 
led him to discuss a famous text of the Hopkinsians, which the 
doctor slipped through finely, by dint of grammar and rhetoric, 
and thence, to defend his position, his genius and his memory 


ALBAN , 


249 


leading him on, plunged into an ocean of quotation, passage after 
passage heaving up ore rotundo, like waves breaking in foam. It 
was a novel exhibition to Alban, who was equally surprised and 
entertained. 

The De Groots, however, had invited others. A Mr. Clinton 
came first — a retired merchant, with his fashionable wife and 
daughter, people of particularly easy manners, whose arrival en- 
tirely changed the tone of the conversation from religion to the 
chit-chat of the day. Next entered a Mr. Livingston Van Brugh 
(so announced) a tall, broad-shouldered young man of some five- 
and-twenty, appertaining to Mr. De Groot’s own class, his father 
being a manorial proprietor on the Hudson. After him entered 
the patroon himself, who alone of all the manor-lords disputed 
Mr. Van Rensselaer’s exclusive claim to that title, and, lean- 
ing on his arm, a friend — the Rev. Mr. Warens, minister of the 
Unitarian church, or chapel, in which Mr. De Groot was a pew- 
holder. Last of all glided in the daughter of the house, in virgin 
white, and a trifle pale. 

Mary was saluted by Mrs. and Miss Clinton with a kiss on 
both cheeks ; to the remainder of the guests she made her wonted 
graceful obeisance, except Mr. Warens, to whom she went up, 
and shook him cordially by the hand as an old friend. White- 
haired Scip announced dinner, and the party filed off through 
the Vanderlyn cabinet into the dining-room. 

An efiective scene of domestic splendor presented itself to 
them as they entered. The table was round, lighted with bran- * 
ches of silver gilt, and in the centre an ancient salt-cellar of the 
same, terminating in a quaint, spreading flower-vase. The sconces 
on the walls were filled with lighted tapers, and the old Dutch 
pictures, the carved oak wainscot and chairs, the sparkling cup- 
board, the high and broad oak-shuttered window, the rich festive 
board, the soft abundant light, completed a picture rarely seen on 
this side the Atlantic. Nor were the guests unworthy of it, at 
least in outward appearance. Mr. Clinton, notwithstanding his 
aristocratic name, had been a poor boy and the architect of his 


250 


ALBAN. 


own fortune ; but he had rather the air of an old noble gracefully 
decaying after a youth of splendid excess. It was the more re- 
markable, as he was not an American hut a native of the Green 
Isle. His wife was a New Yorker, of a fashionable family — 
Grace church people : all the world knows what that signifies. 
Their daughter was highly distinguished, brilliantly fair, with a 
profusion of light brown ringlets, very fine teeth, and a delicate 
though sensual physiognomy. Next to Miss Clinton sat Van 
Brugh, who had a gentlemanlike countenance, a little marred by 
dissipation. Mr. Warens was short, thin, and dark, with a bald 
forehead and penetrating black eye, somewhat restless. The 
head of Alban’s father had become grand and historical as he ad- 
vanced in years ; but slight, pale, irregular in features and plainly 
attired as she was, nature and breeding had written lady on the 
face and mien of Mrs. Atherton, more unequivocally than on 
those of any other woman present. The time we have occupied 
in noting this would scarcely have sufficed for Dr. Fluent’s elo- 
quent grace, in which he thanked God for every thing but the 
dinner, and asked every blessing except a blessing on the food. 

“ The reverend gentleman must have forgot to say his prayers 
this morning by his taking this opportunity for it,” whispered Mr. 
Clinton to Mary De Groot, while she took off her gloves. 

“We must say grace for ourselves if we don’t like what is 
said for us,” replied the young lady. 

“ I observed you ‘ blessing’ yourself. Is that anywhere a 
* custom of Protestants ?” 

“ Blessing myself ? What is that ?” 

“ Making the sign of the cross. We call it so in Ireland.” 

“ Oh, indeed !” 

“You seem hungry. Miss Mary.”— She had attacked her 
bread. “ Be patient and your turn will come for soup.” 

“ My fingers were restless, Mr. Clinton.” 

“ No, I see real hunger sparkling in your eyes. The sharp- 
ness of famine is in your youthful face. YSu have been fasting. 
This is wrong. Even in the Roman Catholic Church boys and 


A L B .V N . 


251 


girls under age are not obliged, and generally not permitted 
to fast.” 

“ What do you know about that ?” 

“ Living so long as I have, one picks up a deal of miscellane- 
ous information.” 

We are thinking whether it would not be something in our 
way to describe the dinner, course by course, as was the method of 
the old romancers and poets, beginning with Homer. A first-rate 
Knickerbocker dinner is a peculiar, a national thing. We may 
pass over the inevitable fish and boiled, with a gentle reference to 
the oysters, which do not taste as if they had been stewed with 
an equal quantity of old ha’pennies, as oysters always do in Eu- 
rope, (but we learned to like that coppery flavor,) and to those 
innocent apples of the earth (let us have refinement in phraseolo- 
gy before all things !) crumbling like pollen, white as lilies, and 
hot as — don’t burn your mouth with them at least. But we 
can’t help a sensation, however we may try to look calm, when 
that huge saddle of underdone wild venison appears, with a 
bright array of silver heaters to cook the slices on the table ac- 
cording to the taste of each several guest. This is our real din- 
ner — a meal which London or Paris, or the ancient Baiae, never 
knew — of which, and of some of the endless American legumes, 
our innocent and refined predilection, all partake : and we will 
not spoil it, although a course of small game tempts us not alto- 
gether in vain by the bounteous choice it oilers — partridges from 
the mountains, grouse from the plains, canvass backs from the 
rivers, and flocks of nameless smaller birds. What Muse that 
neither soars too high nor sinks too low, shall aid us to present the 
delicacies of the dessert (general cisatlantic name for things sepa- 
rately classed abroad) so refreshing alike to the eye and the palate. 
^noAvy ice creams — as glaciers descend to the border of flowery 
valleys — precede by a moment the rich tropical and native fruit 
and flowers intermingled, that finally stand, with the wines and 
colored glasses, on the polished black oaken table. The patroon 
though a philosopher, being also a true Knickerbocker, was proud 


252 


ALBAN. 


of his Wines. The choicest vintages of France and the Rhine 
made his cellars almost poetical, and he invited you to try some 
Madeira which had mellowed for a third of a century in his gar- 
ret storeroom under the suns of American summers, with as high 
and fine a feeling of dignity, almost, as that with which he had 
received Alban in his magnificent library. 

When the weather had been spoken of, and all had agreed 
that December had been a very cold month, but not so cold 
as the year previous, that we were now having the January 
thaw, but that we might expect something severe in February 
and March, Mrs. Clinton mentioned the new Opera House in 
Church-street, and as this topic was taken up rather timidly at 
first, owing perhaps to the presence of the reverend clergy, the 
conversation ran in a general, abstract way on the practicability 
of establishing this musical luxury in America. 

“ It can be introduced, but not yet,” said Mr. Clinton, who was 
generally right. 

“ Never in this country,” said Mr. Atherton, senior, with posi- 
tiveness. “We don’t want to pay so much money to hear Italian 
singing.” 

Mr. De Groot differed from his guest. “ The opera,” said he, 

“ has produced some of the sublimest works of human genius. 
Without it a chasm would exist in the works of the imagination 
which ought not to exist there any more than in nature.” 

“ The grander it is as a work of art, the more I object to it,”" 
said Dr. Fluent, looking round and sitting up. “ Yes ; for that 
but renders it of all theatrical amusements (which I condemn in 
toto) the most perfect masterpiece of sensual and secular seduc- 
tion.” Dr. Fluent rounded off his periods with an oratorical 
flourish. “ With the opera,” he continued, “ is necessarily con- 
nected the ballet, and the defence so ingeniously set up for the one 
by our accomplished host, is equally applicable, mutatis mutandis, 
to the other. Without the ballet — the laws of beauty and ryth- 
mical expression applied to the movements of the human (and par- 
ticularly of the female) body — ” the doctor was somewhat too 


ALBAN. 


253 


scientific here for the ladies — “ there would be a chasm in the 
works of the imagination. This is a reductio ad absurdum; for 
the immorality of the ballet, I hope, will be admitted.” The 
reverend gentleman finished with a long quotation from a Latin 
satirist that threw the few hackneyed phrases which he had already 
from habit employed completely into the background. He first 
recited the original with great effect and then edified the company 
with an elegant extempore paraphrase. With all his pretension 
and extravagance Dr. Fluent possessed a scholarship and taste that 
carried him through. The finest actor could not have done it bet- 
ter ; it told admirably ; and Mr. Clinton ironically applauded with 
his two index fingers. 

“ I still must think the opeja moral,” said Mr. De Groot, with 
a smile. “ I can never forget the effect of the Freischutz at Dres- 
den, performed by Weber’s own choir. That opera, and Don 
Giovanni, are as edifying to me as High Mass to a devout Catholic 
like Mary, or one of Dr. Fluent’s eloquent discourses to a pious 
Presbyterian like her mother.” 

This caused some gentle laughter ; but Mrs. Atherton looked 
shocked, and Mary De Groot blushed. Miss Clinton turned quickly 
to the latter, and leaning somewhat familiarly past Alban, who sat 
between them, half-whispered “ Is that true, Mary ? Have you 
become — ? Well, I always thought you would, you know.” 

Miss Clinton’s attention was principally occupied by her other 
neighbor, Mr. Van Brugh, but she occasionally spared a soft ques- 
tion or two for Alban, looking into his dark blue eyes while he 
responded, and if any thing was said that excited a general smile, 
like Dr. Fluent’s display, she generally bestowed hers sympatheti- 
cally upon him, showing her double string of pearls set between a 
pair of rose-leaved lips. But now our hero found himself appealed 
to most unexpectedly by his host. 

“ What is your opinion on this subject, Mr. President ? — I heard 
at New Haven that your son’s decisions,” addressing Mr. Atherton 
— “ were famous in the Brothers’.” 

“ Were you President of the Brothers in Unity ?” inquired Dr. 

22 


I 


254 


ALBAN. 


Fluent^ with obvious deference. “ Pray let us hear youi decision. 
You have heard the argument on both sides.” 

“ A decision from the President of the Brothers’ Society !” said 
Mr. De Groot, in a low voice and looking round. 

“ Speak up, Mr. Alban,” whispered Mary De Groot, addressing 
him almost for the first time. 

“ The question is the Italian Opera : — can it, and ought it, to 
be introduced in America ?” put in Mr. Warens, neatly. 

” Can it ?” said Alban, plucking up courage, “ has been 
answered by Mr. Clinton. I think we are Europeans still, after 
all. We have changed our sky but not our minds." 

“ Hear, hear !” said Mr. Clinton. 

“ Black Care behind the horseman sits,” quoted Dr. Fluent, (he 
quoted it in Latin, however,) “ and you think, Mr. — Pres-i-dent, 
that something blacker yet sits at the poop of ships bound from 
the oli world, novas, quarere sedes.” Dr. Fluent pronounced 
the Latin so distinctly that even the ladies fancied they under- 
stood it. 

“ I don’t know,” rephed Alban. “ I saw the Opera last night 
for the first time — " 

“ Did you ?” exclaimed his mother. 

“ And I certainly felt what Mr. De Groot has said so much 
better than I can, that it was one of the foreordained achievements 
of the imagination.” 

The patroon nodded approbation. 

“ But whether Christianity would not class such creations of 
genius among the pomps of this wicked world — ” 

“ Well, I thought,” said his mother, exchanging a glance of 
satisfaction with Mrs. De Groot. 

“ Is a question,”-continued Alban, “ upon which I cannot be so 
presumptuous as to offer an opinion in the presence of the reverend 
clergy.” — Bowing to Dr. Fluent and Mr. Warens. 

“ Very well done,- Mr. Alban !” said Mary in a whisper, and 
with a smile of triumph. 

” Alban dined with Seixas yesterday,” observed Mr. Atherton, 


ALBAN. 


255 


senior, by w^ay of explanation. “ He invited you to go to the 
opera with him afterwards, I suppose.” 

“ Exactly so, sir. And he told me what I was surprised to learn, 
that all the great operatic composers, as well as singers, were Jews.” 

“ I had a dispute on that point with Seixas the other day,” 
said Mr. Clinton. “ I maintained that the greatest composers were 
Catholics in religion, and not even Jews by birth. I wonder if 

Mozart and Weber were Jews. And even and , the 

new composers, and the greatest of all, if they are Hebrews by ori- 
gin, are Catholics in faith.” 

“ Catholics or Jews — it amounts to the same thing, I suppose,” 
observed Mr. Atherton, senior, with a look of humor. “ At least 
I never could see any difference.” 

Mr. Clinton reddened, and Mary De Groot opened her candid 
mouth in a half-scornful surprise ; but every body else smiled 
except Dr. Fluent, who seemed to think that some slight was 
intended to religion in general. Miss Clinton, with the blended 
forwardness and tact of an American girl, turned the conversation 
to Mr. Seixas’s liberal support of the Opera, which led to a discussion 
of his wealth. Miss Clinton was enthusiastic on the subject of his 
beauty. She thought he was the handsomest man in New York. 
Alban observed that Miss Seixas was very beautiful — a real 
Rebecca. 

“ What jewels she wears !” said Miss Clinton, turning to him. 
“ If she were not a Jewess it would hardly be in good taste for a 
demoiselle — w'ould it ?” — Miss Clinton herself was simple as a 
white rose, yet one of her taper indexes sparkled with a little hoop 
of brilliants. “ And Mrs. Seixas ! since the last bal we were at 
at the Tuileries, I have seen nothing to compare with her 
stomacher.” 

“ I have not seen Mrs. Seixas yet,” said Alban. 

When Miss Clinton turned again to her other supporter, Mary 
vdd rested Alban in a slight tone of pique. 

“ So you have found some Jewish friends ?” 

“ Very interesting ones.” 


256 


ALBAN. 


“ I have found some Catholic friends who interest me. One is 
a young girl — about my age — who possesses finer jewels than 
Miss Seixas, I dare say.” 

“ You mean virtues ?” 

“ Yes, humility, resignation, devotion, purity, charity, selfde- 
nying love, and unspotted chastity,” said Miss De Groot, with a 
slight flush and speaking quick. 

“ The last,” replied Alban innocently, “ is a virtue, as Mr. 
Seixas told me, w’hich is most conspicuous in Jewish females. 
Their notions of delicacy, he says, are strict to a degree unknown 
among Christians, and as for a Jewish lady’s slipping, it is unheard- 
of 1 did not quite appreciate his remark,” continued Alban, “ for 
I told him I thought all ladies naturally detested every thing of 
that sort. With rare exceptions, of course, like your .friend — ” 

Miss De Groot turned to him quickly and pressed his arm, 
although Alban had unconsciously lowered his voice. 

“ Hush !” she whispered. 

Mr. Clinton, listening, smiled. 

“ It is very true, Mr. Alban,” said Mary gravely, and yet with 
a glance almost of tenderness. “ In us — as in Jewesses — it is a 
virtue in the natural order, but in Catholics it is a grace.” 

“ You are a zealous convert,” replied Alban, while Mr. Clinton 
listened with a peculiar look. 

“ My poor Margaret Dolman,” she continued, “ is nothing but 
an Irish servant girl — careless and slipshod as any you will meet ; 
no one has ever taught her how to be otherwise ; — but such white- 
ness of soul ! I could not have acted as she did. I could not have 
united such meekness under insult with such firmness in not doing 
th-e slightest wrong. My virtue would have been half pride, but 
hers was supported by the single fear of offending her Creator : — 
‘ You know, miss,’ she said, ‘ it would be better to die a thousand 
deaths than oflend Almighty God once !’ What a beautiful mo- 
tive, and so holy ! It could never fail, but pride might, as I have 
often feared, Mr. Alban, and Alexandrine used to warn me.” 

Mary raised her voice a little in uttering the concluding sen- 


ALBAN. 


257 


tence, and Miss Clinton gave a start. Mr. Clinton fell into so 
deep a revery that he forgot to rise when the ladies left the table. 

Cigars, and wreaths of smoke curling among the candles ! 
Livingston Van Brugh was now at home. He asked for some 
brandy and water. Old Scip brought in a boiling tea-kettle and a 
silver punch-bowl. All smoked except our hero and Mr. Warens. 
The latter drew up to Alban and asked about New Haven. He 
was evidently surprised to meet a young man of untrammelled 
mind from the orthodox university, Mr, Warens spoke of the want 
of moral culture among the orthodox, 

“ They substitute for it,” observed Alban, “ the spasmodic 
stimulus of revivals, A young New Englander, instead of regard- 
ing the whole of life as a continuous probation, from the dawn of 
reason to the grave, considers that all depends on being truly con- 
verted once. Hence, before conversion, he makes no conscience 
of his actions, for he is not a Christian, After it, he is careless 
of committing private sins, provided he can retain the belief that 
his conversion is genuine. If this proves too difficult, the remedy 
is to give up the old hope and get another, A fresh delusion thus 
succeeds, and so on, till shame forbids the repetition of the process, 
or a hardened insensibility is content to dispense with it.” 

Dr. Fluent had pricked up his ears at this conversation, and 
now regarded the wainscoted walls with a wild stern look. 

“ These are the majority,” said Mr. Warens, laughing at Al- 
ban’s picture. “ But all are not such.” 

“ Oh, there are good people among us,” said Alban, — “ a sort 
of spoiled angels ! They disdain, you know, to do good works to 
merit heaven, which they consider already secured to them by 
God’s special favor ; but they will do something for the Almighty 
in return, purely out of gratitude. It is impossible to give an idea 
of the intense spiritual pride fostered by such a system.” 

' “ You must get acquainted with liberal Christianity,” said 
Mr. Warens. 

“ How can revealed religion be liberal ?” replied Alban, thought- 
fully. “ If you deny the faith in one point you cannot be saved.” 

22 » 


258 


ALBAN. 


“ That is Roman Catholicism.” 

“ And Judaism. What religion was ever more intolerant 
than that of Moses? A liberal Judaism was punished with 
death.” 

“ Christ has done away with that.” 

“ Yes ! the alternative He offered was faith or damnation.” 

“ You ought to be a Roman Catholic,” repeated Mr. Warens, 
with a slight asperity, while Dr. Fluent, with his massive chin^in 
the air, smiled grimly at the carved Bacchantes of the wainscoting. 

“ Or a Jewish proselyte of the gate,” said Alban. 

“ Then you do not accept Christianity at all,” returned Mr. 
Warens, stiffly. 

“ I believe God spoke by Moses,” said Alban, “ because the 
existence of the Jews at this day proves it. I know what Judaism 
is, and my heart bows before a system of morals evidently divine. 

‘ The Law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul ; the com- 
mandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes,’ ” added 
Alban, with a certain fervor. “ Let Christianity present me similar 
credentials. Let it show me a people — a polity — built upon it, 
and witnessing to it, and gifted with like permanence. Let its 
doctrine seem worthy of God and wholesome for man. Let some 
one at least tell me what that doctrine is, for after all my inquiries 
I am still in the dark on that point.” 

Mr. Clinton had been puffing out volumes of smoke from his 
nostrils (for he inhaled the weed) and apparently not listening. 
He broke in with unexpected effect. 

“ You want a people — a polity, Mr. Atherton,” — Mr. Clinton 
spoke with a rich, unusual brogue, from which he w'as generally 
quite free — “ a polity built on Christianity, or rather built by its 
Founder, sir, to bear witness to it, and existing immutably, like 
the Jews, in spite of all changes. Sir, the Catholic Church is 
such a polity. She can tell you, sir, what Christianity is, and 
you will find it worthy of God and wholesome for man. You are 
nearer faith, Mr. Atherton, than either of these learned divines. 
I declare it is strange to see a man in a fog, seeking for what is 


ALUAN. 


259 


close at his hand. Any poor Irish servant girl who knows her 
catechism could teach you more about Christianity, gentlemen, in 
five minutes, than you have all learned in your great universities 
in all your lives.” 

This outburst was received in silent astonishment, not less 
than if Mr. Clinton had suddenly given signs of lunacy. Mean- 
while the apparent, because louder, stream of conversation had 
run in a political channel, whither, by an abrupt defection of Mr. 
Warens, the whole current now flowed. Nullification, the great 
speeches of Webster, the policy of Clay, the craft of Van Buren, 
the rude but patriotic energy of Jackson, were successively dis- 
cussed. Alban listened in a fever of ambition, and was sorry 
when Scip brought a message from the ladies that the gentlemen 
would please come and take some coffee. 


. lA- 


260 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

In the drawing-room the ladies had divided into pairs. Mrs, 
De Groot took Mrs. Atherton into a corner to tell her (she could 
keep it no longer) the story of her stepdaughter’s sad perversion, 
to which Alban’s mother listened with astonishment, and consid- 
erable alarm for her unsettled son. She felt that so eccentric a , 
pair of young people had better have as little intercourse as possi- 
ble, and when Mrs. De Groot, fearing that Mrs. Atherton might 
be alarmed for Alban, proceeded to say how much she hoped 
from his pious influence over Mary, Mrs. Atherton thought herself 
obliged to let Mrs. De Groot know how much she was mistaken. 

It was now Mrs. De Groot’s turn to be astonished, and to perceive, 
moreover, that she had been regularly sold by her husband in this 
transaction, having been allowed to suppose that Mary was at- 
tached to a pious and orthodox young collegian, when all the 
while it was an audacious speculator like Mr. De Groot himself — 

“ one of his own kidney” — as she somewhat hastily expressed her- 
self, — an infidel, a moralist, and perhaps a Jew ! Mary, too, had 
deceived her, like a Roman Catholic as she was. In her agi- 
tation Mrs, De Groot nearly suffocated, being, as we have said, 
inclined to flesh, and tightly laced. Meanwhile the easy Mrs. 
Clinton entertained Mrs. Fluent (who was naturally an accom- 
plished listener) with an account of the splendors of their last 
winter in Paris ; and Paris was the theme on which Miss Clinton 
expatiated with Mary De Groot. 

Miss Clinton, whose companion listened with a singular smile, 
and made half-sarcastic replies, could tell of balls, operas, and 
carriage-promenades in the Bois de Boulogne, and of the court 
at the Tuileries. She was enthusiastic about the young French 
princes, and had danced with the Due de Nemours. She thought 
American society so unexciting — no dukes and duchesses, no prin- 


ALBAN. 


261 


ces and courts. Mary ought to go abroad. With her beauty and 
fortune, and aristocratic position, she would have the entree every- 
where, and might marry a duke. 

“ Thank you,” said Mary, with a flash of that pride of pro- 
vincial noblesse of which she was very sensible ; “ the duke who 
marries me will have to come to the Manor to woo me. I shan’t 
cross the water for a husband, I promise you.” 

“ Your being a Catholic would add to your currency in the 
high French circles,” observed Miss Clinton, after answering a 
question of Mary’s respecting the churches in Paris. 

“ I wonder you didn’t become a Catholic, Henrietta !” 

The gentlemen approached from the Vanderlyn room where 
the Ariadne was now unveiled, the ladies having been looking at 
the pictures. Mr. Warens and Mary’s father threw themselves 
on a sofa together to take their coffee. 

“ How do you like the youth, Warens ?” 

“ A brilliant fellow, but eccentric. Says he’s a Jew.” 

“ Ha, ha ! Better a Jew than a Papist. The Jews are Uni- 
tarians, Warens.” 

“ And Romanists are Christians. I am sorry to see you so 
bitter.” 

“ Look at those girls, Warens, "with Van Brugh and young 
Atherton doing the agreeable to both. Do you see how Henri- 
etta Clinton’s eyes turn sparkling from one to the other ? What 
a sympathetic smile ! Livingston, you see, is a triffe too familiar 
— he has taken punch enough to stir his Dutch blood — and she 
laughs and edges off from him. How quiet, on the contrary, is 
Mary De Groot. She has color since dinner, but her eyes are 
fastened on the magnificent head of old Atherton as he bends 
over that table of miniatures.” 

“ Like the virtuous Moabitess, she follows not young men, 
whether poor or rich.” 

“ I would rather,” said Mr. De Groot, with irritation, “ see 
her voluptuously flirting like Henrietta Clinton, than hiding filial 
disloyalty under that modest show.” 


262 


I 


ALBAN . 


“ You shock me.” 

“ I have had experience. The moment your wife or daughter 
embraces this religion — adieu to confidence ! I adored her mother, 
who was purity itself. When we were first wedded I could with 
difficulty make her undefiled fancy comprehend my rights. In 
twenty maiden years her thoughts had never strayed, although I 
received her not from the cloister where she was educated, but 
from the midst of a court. And yet the thought was ever be- 
tween us, that unless I adopted her faith, I was the future com- 
panion of devils — the food of Hell, body and soul I” — Mr. F e 
Groot frowned terribly. “ Is it nothing to me that my daughter 
adopts these dogmas ?” 

Mr. Warens soon after quitted his friend and drew Mary aside. 
She blushed a good deal while he talked to her, answered with ani- 
mation, and when he left her, dashed away a tear. Van Brugh 
and Miss Clinton being now at the piano, she joined Alban again. 

“Are you really going to turn Jew ?” she asked, with vexation. 

“ The Jews do not admit proselytes now,” replied he, smiling. 
“ Nevertheless, I am going to the Synagogue on Saturday to wit- 
ness the ancient worship.” 

“ On Saturday ! to the Synagogue !” said Mary. 

“ Will you go ? Females, you know, sit in a gallery by them- 
selves, but I will introduce you to Miss Seixas.” 

“ 1 go to the Synagogue on Saturday !” exclaimed Mary. 

“ I remember — it is your anniversary.” 

“ If I engage to go, you will say nothing to any one of my 
intention ?” 

“ It shall be a profound secret.” * 

“ Will you come for me in a carriage ?” 

“ Of course. It is going to be quite a mysterious adventure.” 

“At such an hour as I shall designate?” she continued. 
“ On your honor ?” 

“Command me. Lady Mary,” said Alban, gallantly bending, 
as if to kiss her fingers. “ The Synagogue service lasts from 
eight to twelve.” 


ALBAN. 


263 


“ I will let you know what hour will suit me when I know it 
myself. I count upon you on Saturday, remember.” 

“ You may do so with confidence,” said Alban, gravely and 
significantly. 

And now by twos and threes, white-necked young ladies and 
white-waistcoated, or at least white-gloved young gentlemen drop- 
ped in. A rattling fire of small talk ran along the intricate 
battle line of silken seats. The piano, which had merely motived 
a desperate flirtation between Van Brugh and Miss Clinton, 
awoke into life. There was a heavy cannonade of instrumenta- 
tion, and a brilliant charge or so of songs. Some of the new- 
comers clustered round the beautiful daughter of the house, whose 
return home seemed the occasion of this reunion, others swarmed 
round the piano and music-racks, ferreting out the most approved 
pieces. These were not the charming negro melodies since so 
popular, nor the noble German airs, but some Italian opera-bits, 
Mrs. Hemans’ romantic ballads, “ The Sea,” “ The night was 
dark,” and other old favorites now forgotten. Accustomed to a 
society with a deal more whalebone in it, Alban was equally sur- 
prised and gratified by the facility with which he got acquainted 
with Mary De Groot’s friends. A most unusual sympathy and 
mutual kindness appeared to exist between these young people, as 
well as a spirit of frank enjoyment which he had not elsewhere ob- 
served. In the surnames of those to whom he was introduced, he 
perceived one cause of this difl’erence. It was a set of Stuyvesants 
and Brevoorts, Gansevoorts and Van Rensselaers, Van Brughs and 
Livingstons, De Witts and De Lanceys. As the evening advanced 
a marked disposition to romp developed itself in this very well- 
dressed but very inartificial circle. Dancing, which they tried 
first, did not appear suflicient for their spirits. Diflerent plays 
were proposed. Mary De Groot objected to several, and finally 
blind-man’s-buff was carried by acclamation. 

“Oh, really !” said Alban, “are these grown-up young ladies 
and gentlemen going to play blind -man’s- buft’ in your father’s 
beautiful rooms ?” 


264 


ALBAN. 


“ As sure as fate,” replied Mary, laughing and spinning away 
from him in a dancing step, with her drapery spread and whirl- 
ing around her. 

In short, they were soon all racing through the saloons like 
children, dodging behind chairs and tables, springing over divans, 
hiding in corners. There was much laughter, now and then a 
scream, and the young gentlemen who were blindfolded handled 
the young ladies when they caught them, rather freely. Alban 
could not help suspecting that this was half the charm of so rude 
a game. Van Brugh really carried it quite too far, particularly with ’ 
Henrietta Clinton, who was several times caught. The last time 
she caught Alban. He was so modest that he would never have 
detected those who suffered themselves to he apprehended, par- 
ticularly as he was not yet well acquainted, and he invariably 
called the names wrong, amid hursts of laughter. He began to 
feel annoyed. He had observed that Mary, while she entered 
into the amusement with spirit, running like a little deer, and per- 
fectly wild with fun, always contrived, in whatever position her 
sportive fancy involved her, to escape without being caught. 
Livingston, with one eye (as all believed) unblinded, pursued her 
once with pertinacity, but he might as well have chased a ray of 
light. Now our hero had perceived some one hovering near him- 
self, evidently of the long-robed sex, who evaded his pursuit with 
a similar dexterity. At last she stood on the opposite side of a 
gigantic vase ; they went round it once or twice ; suddenly, 
whether accidentally or purposely, her hand rested on his, and 
with a quick motion he caught it. There was a laugh. He 
drew her into the middle of the room. Was it Mary or was it 
not ? The manner of play was like her, but would Mary have 
touched his hand ? He could have decided the question in a trice 
by feeling her temples, for no other girl present had the hair simi- 
larly arranged. It was a liberty (not to speak of others) which 
the young men had taken with their prizes without ceremony. 
While he stood considering, the hand at first passively resigned 
in his, made a slight effort to withdraw itself. 


ALBAN. 


265 


“ It is Mary De Groot. 

The young lady removed the bandage from his eyes amid 
a general silence. 'All the youths and maidens were gathered in 
a close circle round them, looking over each others’ shoulders. 
Then they all laughed, and the young ladies demanded, “ How 
did you know ?” — others exclaimed, “ You saw !” and one, 
“ There’s sonie freemasonry here !” Henrietta Clinton said, “ It is 
magnetism.” But Alban, tying the handkerchief over Mary De 
Groot’s eyes, said, “ There are moral as well as physical signs of 
individuality.” Mary said nothing, and darting ofi', in a minute 
or two had caught and named quite a little girl — the youngest of 
the party, whose eager flight and vexation at being captured 
were extremely amusing. 

The company v'ere goire. The father and daughter were 
alone in the library. The walls piled with bookcases, and the 
gloomy circling gallery frowned around them. Mr. De Groot 
placed himself in his study-chair and motioned Mary to her stool. 
The fire was expiring in the grate, and a solitary burner in a 
chandelier of Berlin iron, which represented a mass of shields, 
swords, spears, and other weapons, offensive and defensive, cast a 
cold light upon her virgin drapery. The meaning of this was 
that her father had first observed her abstinences, then suspected 
that she went to mass, next had watched to see, and that morning 
from his window had perceived her exit, (being too late to prevent 
it) observing her come out of the side-door, join her humble friends 
under the street-lamp, and hie away. 

“ You are treacherous, ungrateful, and unfilial,” said her father, 
after stating these circumstances. “ After all rny indulgence — 
my readiness to gratify your least whim ! You asked to come 
home that you might learn, forsooth, to fulfil your duty as a 
daughter, and the first thing in which you are detected is stealing 
away before light to attend, the mummeries of the mass, disap- 
proved and detested by both your parents. I can characterize 
such conduct but by one word — hypocrisy ! It is of a piece, in- 
deed, with the maxims of Romanists.” 

23 


266 


ALBAN. 


“ I am no hypocrite, papa,” replied Mary. “ You knew that 
I had embraced the religion of my mother, and you might infer 
that I would practise it.” 

“ You have embraced a religion ! A chit of sixteen ! a child 
just out of school, and taken out too soon. Your religion is to 
listen to the advice of your living parents and to obey their com- 
mands,” said her father, with some violence. 

“ I am sixteen and six months,” replied Mary, “ and Sister 
Theresa says that St. Catherine and St. Agnes were only thirteen 
when they were martyred. Father Smith says the Church has 
decided that when children are old enough to have faith, they are 
bound to embrace the true religion whether' their parents consent 
to it or not. It is plain, papa, that I have a right to be baptized,” 
she continued, with a bright and sparkling courage ; “ and to whom 
shall I apply for baptism ? Not to mamma’s pastor, surely : he 
would not baptize me, because he would say I had never been 
converted. Not to Mr. Warens, certainly, since he does not be- 
lieve in the Trinity. Oh, I must go to the Church, of course — 
there is no other way for me. And toon, papa, — or else I may 
die, young as I am, and lose Heaven. And secretly, papa,” — with 
increasing spirit, — “ for you know you would try to prevent it, and 
why should you and I have a fight about that ?” 

Mr. DejGroot stared at her with mingled astonishment and 
wrath. He grew almost livid, so that Mary began to be frightened. 
He started up and seized her wrist. His lip was flecked with a 
slight foam. 

“ You defy me, do you ? What hinders me, insolent girl, from 
inflicting the summary chastisement such language to your father 
merits ?” 

Mary now held her tongue. Courageous as she was, she 
quailed. Physical pain and fear subdued her partly, and partly 
the moral agony of incurring what is intolerable to a woman’s 
feelings, particularly to one who had never, even in childhood, 
known what it was to be so much as threatened with corporeal 
punishment. ' Her spirit rose again with a rebound. 


ALBAN. 


267 


“ It is the first time, papa, you have ever threatened to Avhip 
me — now that I am a woman !” 

He flung her arm from him as by a violent effort at ^elf-control, 
and resumed his seat. She glanced at her empurpled wrist. This 
violence was strangely contrasted with her graceful mien in her 
party dress, a white rose at her bosom, and buds of the same with 
rich green leaves, in her raven hair. Haply this modest elegance 
pled for her. Reproaches are sometimes excuses in disguise. 

“ Your conduct, Mary, whatever you may think, is a treason to 
that love which once bound us together as father and only child. 
You have wounded me in the tenderest point — robbed me of the 
hope of years. From the daughter and friend you have voluntarily 
sunk into a slave, doing things by stealth, abusing confidence 
reposed in you. You can no longer be trusted. Generous, delicate 
treatment is become inapplicable to you. Harshness, strict sur- 
veillance, and physical restraint must take their place.” 

“ Papa, you wrong me indeed,” replied his daughter, in a heart- 
broken tone. “ Last fall you refused to let me be baptized by Mr. 
Warens. I thought it was a shame for such a great girl to be 
unbaptized, but I submitted. Now I must receive baptism. I 
believe it to be necessary to salvation. I may die very soon. I 
have some reason to think that the day of my death is at hand.” 

“ What stuff” !” said her father. 

“ Nay, sir, hear my reasons,” continued Mary. “ They may be 
silly, but you shall not accuse me any more of want of openness.” 

She told the story of her dream plainly and without a blush. 

“ And to whom do you expect to be married next Saturday ?” 
demanded her father. 

“ I leave that to Heaven, and you, sir. It matters little, if I 
am to die immediately afterwards,” replied Mary, innocently. 

“ I am to conclude, then, that in anticipation of dying next 
Saturday you have been baptized ? or is that still future ?” 

“ Nay, papa, I am not so weak as to be governed in my con- 
duct by a dream. You may be sure I have not, when I tell you 
that Saturday has been appointed for my baptism, and that I would 


268 


ALBAN. 


not yield to a superstitious feeling so far as to ask for an 
earlier day,” 

These ingenuous avowals had not the effect which might have 
been expected. Mr. De Groot surveyed his daughter with a look 
of stone. What he said partook, nevertheless, of his characteristic 
composure, though broken by more than one sudden burst of almost 
inexplicable passion. 

“ When you were born at the Manor,” said he, “ there was no 
Romish priest to be had short of New York. Your mother, though 
the least ailment incident to infancy excited her anxiety for your 
salvation, was willing to postpone the great remedy for the guilt 
you had incurred by being born, until it could be administered with 
all the ceremonies. From your birth till her death I resided con- 
stantly at the !Manor for this very reason. Once a year a priest 
came up that she might fulfil the obligations of her religion, and 
then I had to undergo a species of martyrdom to prevent your being 
subjected to this magical rite which was to make your Maker cease 
hating you. 1 was determined to allow no incantations over my 
innocent child ! I had to tell your mother,” said Mr. De Groot, 
with vehemence, “ that a priest should never cross my threshold, 
for such a purpose,' unless over my dead body.” He rose and re- 
peated it, as if the words called up the scene, and looking at Mary 
as if she were his departed wife, struck his hand violently upon the 
table, saying again, — “ never — unless over my dead body 1” He was 
white as a sheet, and stared as if he saw a ghost. Again he struck 
the table violently. “ Never shall a popish priest enter my house 
for such a purpose — unless over my dead body !” 

“ Papa' !” said Mary. 

He looked at her wildly, and sat down again, glaring still ; his 
hand trembling and clenching itself He passed it through his hair 
and resumed. 

“ When she was dying I had a priest sent for, to save her from 
the horror of leaving the world without the sacraments — a horror 
which caused me horror. At that time I had a last contest with 
her on this point. She said — but no matter for that ! Do you think 


ALBAN. 


269 


that after having been deaf to her entreaties and wild, absurd 
threats, under such circumstances, I shall yield now to your wilful 
fantasies ? Do you think it ?” said her father, rising again, and 
glaring at her. He resumed his seat. “ I shall take care of you for 
a few days, as I would if you were out of your senses. You fancy 
something supernatural has occurred to you ! At your time of life 
girls are subject to these illusions. I shall contrive it so that you 
get over next Saturday without either wedlock, or burial, or bap- 
tism. After that I will talk to you again. Be sure that I shall 
not permit you, at your inexperienced age, to be inveigled” — Mr. 
De Groot again (apparently because he could not help it) struck the 
table Ibrcibly with his hand — “ inveigled by the arts of Romish 
priests or nuns, into committing yourself to a system of vile trum- 
pery and imposture” — again his manner became violent — “ of vile 
trumpery and imposture. Entice a girl of sixteen — without the 
knowledge of her parents — to throw herself into their detested sect ! 
A young lady of fortune — an heiress I Never was any thing more 
base. But they will find in me an older and mor^ determined op- 
poiient than they dream of” 

A chasm had suddenly gaped at the daughter’s feet ! In the 
father she still loved next to God, what new revelation of insane 
violence and hate ! what a drear change in their mutual relations 
' — drear and scarce credible ! As soon as Mary really understood 
it, she behaved in a quite feminine and filial way, threw herself at 
once at her father’s feet and implored his forgiveness, if she had 
forgotten the respect she owed him. He bade her rise, and desired 
her to go to her room, accepting with coldness her kiss of good- 
night. 

In the hall Mary paused a moment, hesitating whether even 
yet she ought not to return and humiliate herself still more, but 
she glanced at the arm which bore the mark of her father’s 
fingers, and catching up her robe with feminine spirit, flew up to 
her own apartment. Here the crucifix recalled her quickly to 
humble and patient thoughts. Her humiliations, however, were 
not ended. While she was yet kneeling at her mother’s prie-dieu. 


270 


ALBAN. 


praying and meditating on the silent sufl'erings of the Lamb of 
God, her stepmother entered unbidden. Our heroine’s rapt expi'es- 
sion, her large dark eyes fastened on the crucifix, her lips just 
moving, the beads dropping between her slightly clasped fingei’S, 
were a picture of devotion, which, unconscious as it was, excited 
the instinctive disgust of Mrs. De Groot. Had any convenient 
weapon of destruction been at hand she would have dashed in 
pieces the image which appeared to her the object of this worship, 
in a transport of iconoclastic rage. “ Idolatress !” was the only 
word she could at first utter. Mary rose, a little astonished at 
this new style, and crossing her hands meekly on her breast, 
listened in silence to such a reproof as the indulged child had 
never received before. Finally Mrs. De Groot directed her 
daughter in a severe tone to read before retiring, the eleventh 
chapter of Hebrews, and withdrew, locking the young lady in. 
The philosophy of sixteen could not repress some tears, but it 
was some consolation obediently to read the chapter assigned her, 
where she learned that the Patriarch Jacob when dying, prescient 
of the Avood of the cross on which the World’s Salvation was to 
hang, “ adored the top of his rod.” 


i 


ALBAN. 


271 


CHAPTER IX. 

An Irish girl came out of the garden gate of the great house 
with a bonnetless head and a pail of dirty water. Another girl 
was passing and repassing, and watching from a distance. The 
latter drew near, and the two recognized each other. — “ What, 
Ann Murphy ! is that you ?” — “ The Lord save you ! is it Marga- 
ret Dolman ?” — so they stopped and chatted. 

“ And sure it was a dreadful sin to keep Miss from bein’ a 
Christian,” said Ann. “ And there’s Catharine — that’s the 
chambermaid — she towld us this morning that Miss was locked 
up, and there was a talk among the servants that she was wantin’ 
to run away with a young gintleman that was here to see her the 
day after she came home — a young college gintleman he was — 
but niver a sowl of us suspicted it was because Miss was going to 
be a Catholic like her mother. And sure this very morning when 
I set her room to rights, the cross and beads was gone. And it’s 
no wonder Miss looked as if she’d niver a friend lift in the worrld.” 

“ I don’t believe she’d be for mindin’ any thing at all, if she 
was only baptized,” said Margaret. “ And to-morrow morning 
it was to be. Pity it was not yesterday, and the divil himsilf 
couldn’t help it now.” 

“ Troth, but its cruel. To think there’d be such heathens,” 
replied Ann. “ And I would have me clothes torn off me back 
for Miss Mary any day, but what can I do, Margaret dear ?” 

Here a loud cry of “ Ann ! Ann !” from the kitchen windows, 
separated the two girls in haste. 

We have mentioned that Alban called upon his cousin Greys. 
This he did in all his vacations. They lived in a sort of clerical 
street near old King’s College — such a street as nowhere exists in 
New York now. Low half-blinds softened the light in the south- 
ern parlor and excluded the gaze of passers-by. The walls were 


272 


ALBAN. 


hung with prints of British battles, encircled at this festive season 
with rich green wreaths. The Greys were kind to Alban, and 
good deal pleasanter than his Presbyterian friends in his then turn 
of mind. They were great laughers. They laughed about Pres- 
byterianism, and prophesied that he would he a Churchman. 
They advised him, laughingly, to attend Wednesday and Friday 
prayers. It impressed him so favorably, that the next morning, at 
eleven o’clock, he sauntered into St. Paul’s chapel. 

A few High Church old ladies, mostly in weeds, one elderly: 
gentleman, a young man looking forward to the Episcopal minis- 
try, who responded very loud, and the sexton, whose loud parish- 
clerk tone was heard in the gallery, constituted with our hero the 
congregation. The small number present scarcely diminished the 
impressiveness of the service, and rendered it perhaps more sooth- 
ing. The fine old chapel, with its beautiful Corinthian columns 
and nobly recessed chancel, the numerous mural tablets, the high 
pews, the lofty white pile of the reading-desk, pulpit, and sounding 
board, all handsomely carved, contributed to the effect. The pe- 
euliar, deliberate sing-song of the rector, whose locks were already 
prematurely sprinkled with gray, his quiet, yet interested air in 
going through the service, and even the soft, regular, impressive 
gesture of his hand, that reposed on the cushion of the desk in 
reading the lessons, w’ere singularly in harmony with all the rest. 

“ We have here,” thought Alban, “ a venerable Church, a beau- 
tiful Liturgy, decorous forms, a sober piety, equally removed from 
the extravagances of Puritanism and the superstitions of Rome. 
I like this notion of a week-day service. Even if ill-attended, it 
is an impressive witness to the duty of worship ; and to the few 
who gather here, how consoling !” 

At that period Morning Prayer was read in Trinity, and its 
two chapels, on Litany days, at the hour which we have already 
mentioned. This was all the week-day service of a regular kind 
in about tAvelve large city parishes of the Episcopal Church. This, 
however, was an inestimable consolation, as Alban observed, to 
those who knew how to appreciate it. The mutual reciting of 


ALBAN. 


273 


psalms, the reading of Scripture lessons, the beautiful suffrages of 
the Litany, made an hour of ancient calm in the vulgar hurry 
and noise of the commercial emporium. Since ’35, there has been 
a great development in the Episcopal Church, in the way of week- 
day services. We find by the Churchman of the present date that 
seven churches of that denomination in the city of New York have 
daily Morning-Prayer, and four of these the Evening service also. 
In one there is a weekly celebration of the Lord’s Supper. This 
may seem little, considering that the wdiole number of their 
churches in the city is between thirty and forty, and of clergy 
about seventy, but still it is an increase. The week-day congre- 
gations also 'are larger than they used to be in the old times, and 
Ave are sorry to add (for this thing ought to be encouraged) that 
for some two or three years the movement has been stationary.. 
It is hardly fair to Episcopalians, but to excite them to emula- 
tion, we may compare with this the week-day worship of the Ca- 
tholics in the same city. In ’35 there were but four Catholic 
churches, but two masses, at least, were said daily in each, eight 
or nine in all, or one-third (perhaps one-half) more services in a 
day than the thrice as numerous and vastly richer Episcopal con- 
gregations sustained in a week. We have not yet overtaken our 
friends in the number of churches or of clergy. Of the former 
there are only nineteen in New York, and four convent chapels ; 
but the numbei of daily masses in this city cannot be less than 
fifty, at a considerable majority of which, if our observation holds, 
there are communions. On Sundays and Festivals the commu- 
nions are large ; on ordinary days, of course, they are smaller. 
Sometimes you will see one poor laborer go up to the altar, or a 
single poor woman. Some — particularly servants, who cannot go 
out at an early hour — communicate on Sundays at High mass, 
although it obliges them to be fasting till past noon. But be it 
one or more, rich or poor. High mass or low, the rite is suspended, 
the white linen is turned over the rail, the confession is said, the 
tabernacle is opened, and the people kneel. The things that are 
said are said .softly, although they are so beautiful that in a Prot- 


274 


ALBAN. 


estant Church they would be proclaimed as with a trumpet. Ho 
comes and departs almost in silence, as of old : — He sJicdl come 
down like rain upon the fleece, and as showers falling gently 
upon the earth. Who thinks of that unfailing early, and that 
latter, rain which descends on the mountains of Israel? Who 
thinks of the fragrance that ascends unceasingly from its humble 
valleys ? 

If Alban had thought of it at all, he would have deemed the 
murmur of the mass a blank and little edifying substitute for the 
intelligible Common Prayer. But Moses hath in every city them 
that preach hhn, being read in the synagogues every Sabbath 
day. As Mary told him, what doth it avail to read or hear the 
word written, while the veil is on your heart ? 

Our hero came out of St. Paul’s into the thronged Broadway. 
Sights of this world assail him : a theatre, a museum, a Hotel de 
Ville, and “stores” without end : hat-stores, dry-goods-stores, book- 
stores, any kind of store you like ! On the sidewalks are ladies 
in silken walking-dresses and gay winter-bonnets, rich shawls and 
splendid cloaks — the gayest promenade in civilization. They 
are shopping — shopping in the Broadway stores. It ought to be 
“ storing,” or else the stores should be shops. Omnibuses, there 
are not many yet, but carriages and cabs not a few. A line of 
handsome ones extends along the north side of St. Paul’s : in 
London you would suppose they were private equipages. Then 
in front of the church, under the protecting image of the great 
Apostle in the pediment of the portico, are ranged the contradic- 
tions (in terms) of which Miss Sedgwick took notice — the Catho- 
lic Orangemen with their rich brogue and baskets of golden fruit. 
These are things which have passed away already, i. e., the cabs 
and the orangemen ; for a few years on this side of the Atlantic, *' 
make antiquity and give us a right to remember. But we dilly- 
dally here in Broadway, among the free and loitering crowd, 
whilst Mary De Groot is^ a prisoner in her father’s freestone 
palace : she whose graceful step has made this vulgar flagging 
poetical. Not a square inch on these sidewalks but may have 


ALBAN. 


275 


been pressed by her light foot ; not a stone on that half-dry 
crossing on which she may not have stepped. Even Alban, with 
conscious thoughts of a very different kind about others, so far 
worshipped his beautiful aird innocent mistress as to feel thus 
about the places where she had been. 

An elegant chariot stopped before Marquand’s as Alban ap- 
proached that famous shop, and two ladies got out. One of them 
arrested her tripping step, and saluted him. It was Miss Clinton. 

“ Are you buying jewelry this morning ?” 

“ Merely going to have a cameo set. Come in and look at it, 
Mr. Atherton. It is one I bought in Rome.” 

Alban went into the jeweller’s accordingly : Miss Clinton 
produced the cameo, which was large, classic, and admirably cut 
• after an ancient terra-cotta. The subject was the Flight of Helen. 
The lovers were in a Greek chariot drawn by four spirited steeds. 
Paris was driving, nude ; Helen, graciously draped. 

“ It is exceedingly admired,” said Miss Clinton. 

Our hero admired it, although he thought it required some 
hardihood for a young lady to wear it on her bosom. Miss Clin- 
ton told him that her father was going to build on the Avenue, on 
the square next to Mr. De Groot. Mrs. Clinton invited him to 
visit them in Broadway, and after some further chat, at the in- 
stance of the young lady he promised to call that very evening. 
Having handed them into their carriage again, giving his circle 
cloak a cavalier sweep, he pursued his walk towards State-street. 

As he went along, he drew a comparison between the young 
lady he had just left and his friend Miss Ellsworth, and this 
brought to mind his conversation with Mary De Groot on the - 
Sound, and the story of her school-days, which again, by an asso- 
ciation of ideas, recalled Henrietta Clinton. In such a re very, he 
arrived at j\Ir. Seixas’ door, and after feeling for a moment that 
he had a right to enter here without notice, rang the bell, and 
the sound of a piano and female voice, which he had previously 
heard, immediately ceased. 

^Miriam Seixas rose from the instrument at his entrance, and 


276 


ALBAN. 


saluted him with grace. She motioned him to the yellow di* 
van, and, after ringing the bell, took a seat opposite him upon 
an ottoman. A moment after, a maiden of inferior aspect, but 
neatly attired, entered the room, and placed herself in a corner 
where she remained, silent, and almost unnoticed, during Alban’s 
stay. 

Notwithstanding this etiquette. Miss Seixas was full of affa- 
bility. She was even a voluble talker. She was a musical en- 
thusiast. The opera was her chief passion, nor did she scorn the 
ballet. She was a proficient in both arts. ,She sang for Alban 
some beautiful Spanish songs ; she danced Spanish and Moorish 
dances for his amusement in the most obliging manner. Nothing 
more oriental, even in a New York drawing-room, than Miriam 
Seixas with the castanets. The virginal freedom of her move- 
ments partook of the heroic, revealing her noble figure in outlines 
so grand and flowing as to blend rather with feelings of religious 
awe or patriotic ardor than of voluptuousness. She might have 
danced with her ancestress and namesake on the sands of the Red 
Sea, or in the procession of the virgins of Zion, before the trium- 
phant returning Ark. 

'• ; Nor was she without serious thoughts, such as were not un- 
worthy of her origin, and her frankness was unlike any thing he 
had known. She told Alban that there were children of the Most 
High (blessed be He) among all nations, and in every faith which 
acknowledged His unity, but Israel, though degraded and despised, 
was his chosen people. She herself was not without hope of being 
at least the ancestress of Messiah, and would deem it a misfortune, 
if not a reproach, to die unmarried or childless. She was espoused 
to her cousin, a Hebrew of pure blood, whom she had not seen 
since she was twelve years old. Alban had got upon this ground 
by asking Miss Seixas if she would be courteous on the morrow to 
a young Christian lady whom he was to bring with him to witness 
the synagogue worship. Miriam readily promised to pay her every 
attention. The young Jewess spoke English with perfect purity, 
but with a foreign accent. 


ALBAN, 


277 


“ It is a high order of character,” thought Alban, returning 
home, “ but peculiar.” 

There was a naive earthliness about the beautiful Miriam 
that reminded our hero of the old Greek spirit. She seemed not 
to look beyond the grave. Her idea of her own sex partook of the 
ancient depreciating estimate. She was the handmaid of man, 
and aspired to no higher destiny than that which nature had 
written in such exquisite characters on her very form. The chastity 
which breathed like a natural fragrance in all the language and 
manners of the young Jewess seemed to Alban quite different 
from the same quality in the purest Christian maidens whom he 
had known. It was not the pride which in his Puritan kinswomen 
scorned to defile an imagined sanctity ; still less the humble vigil- 
ance with which Mary De Groot watched over what she seemed 
to regard as a sacred, though scarce understood, deposit intrusted 
to her care ; but simply the native reserve of her sex, which the 
culture of a law extending to the minutest points of female conduct 
had developed into a moral habit. Her openness again was dif- 
ferent from Mary’s, being a matter of familiarity, while the latter’s 
sprang from ignorance : for Mary’s child-like candor (it required 
little penetration to see) arose from her comprehending, indeed ‘ 
very well, what was the virtue which she practised, but not having 
the least idea wherein consisted the vice which she abhorred. 
Thus our hero felt that something was wanting — a trait of spiritual 
beauty — in what was else so worthy of admiration. Alban could 
not divest himself of his Christianity, do what he would. The 
character which baptism had impressed was not to be elficed. 

But the passion which the first sight of JMiriam had awakened, 
■was strengthened by all that he observed at this interview ; and 
even her betrothal to a distant, scarce known cousin, was a 
circumstance which inflamed it, 'by means of the jealous arrxiety 
which it excited. 

After quitting Miss Seixas, Alban returned home to dinner, and 
it happened that on that day his mother’s uncle. Bishop Grey, 
whom we met some dozen years before at Yanmouth, was his 


278 


ALBAN. 


father’s guest. The hishop had become a most venerable florid old 
gentleman, adhering to his knee-buckles, &c., and with long silver 
locks streaming down upon his shoulders. 

Bishop Grre}" partook of some boiled bass and oysters, and after- 
wards was helped twice to roast turkey, which some may deem a 
luxurious Friday dinner for a bishop ; but “ the measure of absti- 
nence especially suited to extraordinary acts and exercises of de- 
votion” (as the prayer-book luminously expresses it) may vary 
greatly in individ\ials. Dr. Grey was a fervent evangelical, and 
conversed with unction on the subject of personal religion with 
Mrs. Athertoil. At the same time he was a great enemy of Cal- 
vinism, and defended Baptismal regeneration, although in a timid 
way, as conscious of the unpopularity of the tenet. The good 
bishop in fact had a High Church head and a Low Church heart, 
and that we take to be the perfection of an Episcopal clergyman. 
When the table-eloth had been removed, with some old Madeira, 
and a decanter of fine port before him, he beeame witty and con- 
versational, told anecdotes of the Revolution strongly smacking 
of Toryism, and gently dissected the Puritans, to Alban’s great 
delight and the hearty amusement of his father, who had small 
sympathy for religionists of any creed. There was a keen yet 
calm fire in the old prelate’s eye, as he delivered himself of the well- 
arranged and sweet-toned sentences, not unconscious of his own 
witty facility. Tea was over before Alban remembered h.s 
promise to call on the Clintons, as well as the necessity of learning 
from Mary De Groot at what hour next morning it would please 
her that he should come with a carriage to take her to the Syna- 
gogue. 

The hand of Providence was quietly guiding our hero along 
He found the ladies of Mr. Clinton’s family in a state of affliction 
for which he was not prepared. Mother and daughter were both 
in tears, and could not disguise their distress from the young 
visitor. He feared to ask the cause. Bankruptcy or a death 
could alone account for such visible grief. He rather insinuated 
than openly addressed an inquiry to Miss Clinton. 


ALBAN. 


379 


“ Would you believe, Mr. Atherton,” cried Henrietta,. “ that 
papa has declared himself, a Catholic ! He has been one all along, 
without our knowing it. It has come upon us now like a thun- 
derbolt.” 

“ Well,” thought Alban, “ I could have told you this morning.” 

“ He has been Jesuitically concealing his sentiments from me 
ever since we were married,” exclaimed Mrs. Clinton. “ But 
they think deception is right, you know.” 

It appeared on further inquiry that when Mrs. Clinton was 
married she supposed her husband to he indifferent to all religion, 
“ like most men of the world.” He had taken a pew in Trinity, 
and subsequently in Grace church, and had even been talked of 
for vestryman. It was an aggravated case. 

“ Papa expresses a great deal of sorrow for having deceived 
us,” said Henrietta, (a curious expression on her part,) “ but what 
reparation is that now ?” 

“ After all,” observed Alban, consolingly, and taking his 
usual high religious tone, “ is it not better that Mr. Clinton should 
be a good Catholic than nothing at all ?” 

“ You do not understand it, Mr. Atherton. Papa is going to 
take the children (not me, be sure,) away from Grace church — • 
from among people of our own class — to that horrid St. Patrick’s, 
crowded by all the low Irish !” 

“ To think of my girls being taken to confession ! And Mr. 
Clinton says they must be brought up Catholics from this day 
forward.” 

“ I will never go to confession,” cried Henrietta, with spirit, 
“to be asked insulting questions by an unmarried man !” 

“Is that the case?” inquired Alban, thinking immediately 
of Mary. 

“Indeed, Mr. Atherton, if you have any influence, as is gen- 
erally supposed, with an amiable young friend of ours,” said Mrs. 
Clinton, “I do ho^e you will use it to prevent her from exposing 
herself to what must be so shocking to female delicacy. The 
books which are put into the hands of young ladies to read in 


280 


ALBAN . 


preparing for confession (for I have read them myself) are not fit 
for the eye of any virtuous and innocent young person. And it 
is upon these delicate subjects that they must communicate in 
private with priests, who, as Henrietta says, are not married, and 
it is not uncharitable to suppose, few of them correct.” 

“ It is a sad thing,” said Alban, v^armly. “ Have you placed 
the matter in that light before Mr. Clinton, ma’am ?” 

“ You might as well talk to the wind,” said Mrs. Clinton. 

“To the wind !” echoed Henrietta. 

Alban remembered his appointment with Mary De Groot. 
He must keep it, and yet he must endeavor to remonstrate with 
her, if, as he suspected, this morning expedition of hers tended to 
something very different from the Synagogue. Mrs. Clinton and 
her daughter both thanked him warmly for his sympathy, and 
begged him to call again very soon. He was hurrying through the 
basement hall, when a servant advanced and requested hi.rn to 
step for a moment into his master’s study. Although annoyed at 
this detention, he could not well refuse. It was the back base- 
ment room, neatly furnished with bookcases, a study-table, study- 
lamp, and cheerful fire. Mr. Clinton had a happy look, although 
his manner was more grave than ordinary. He did not keep his 
visitor long in suspense. Not to keep the reader in suspense either, 
it was about Mary De Groot’s intention of baptism that Mr. Clin- 
ton wished to speak. Alban had not heard of it, which a little 
surprised him. He had heard it from the bishop, who had asked 
if he knew the family. It seemed that Miss De Groot was not at 
church as usual in the morning, and a suspicion was entertained 
that her intentions had either been discovered by her parents, or 
voluntarily communicated to them, and that she was consequently 
under restraint. 

“ Ah ?” said Alban, in a tone that implied, “What business is 
it of mine ?” 

“ I have no right to interfere, of course,” piftsued Mr. Clinton. 
“ Mr. De Groot would brook my meddling in his family concerns 
as little as I would his in mine. At the same time, I thought it 


ALBAN . 


281 


my duty to do what I could, and, if possible, induce you to use 
your influence, which is considerable in a certain quarter, I have 
reason to think, to obtain for our estimable young friend the free 
exercise of her religion.” 

“ Miss De Groot has a right to he baptized,” said Alban. 
“ That is incontestable ; and I should regard it as a manifest 
wrong in any one to attempt to prevent her. At the same time, 
Mr. Clinton, I must say, that I should not be inclined, even if I 
had the power, to further a step which, in the way she means to 
take it, is to commit her so early in life to the system of your 
Church, objectionable as I fear it is in ways of which she probably 
has no idea. Pardon my frankness.” 

Mr. Clinton bowed, disappointed, but giving the matter up. 

“ I do not mean that I consider the Church of Rome anti- 
Christian or idolatrous,” pursued Alban, rising. “ I have none of 
those bigoted notions, Mr. Clinton. My objection is a practical 
one altogether, founded on what appears the necessarily evil influ- 
ence of the confessional, and its degrading danger to a young and 
innocent woman — and on what is said with apparent probability 
of the personal character of the Roman priesthood, with whom 
this institution brings every member of your Church into so close 
intercourse. Pardon me again.” 

“ Stay a moment,” said Mr. Clinton. “ If I could convince 
you, Mr. Atherton, that these objections are utterly without founda- 
tion — would you use your influence in favor of your young friend’s 
liberty of conscience ?” 

“ I have little time to spare at present,” said Alban. 

“ A quarter of an hour is all I ask,” responded Mr. Clinton. 

Alban could not refuse a quarter of an hour to be convinced 
of so much. 

“ Perhaps you will be disappointed by what I have to say. It 
is only to state facts observed by myself. If the confessional be 
what Protestants suppose, how is it that Catholic females of all 
classes of society, married women and single, mothers and young 
maidens in the bloom of modesty, but especially those who excel 

24 * 


282 


ALBAN. 


in piety, Mr. Atherton, consider it as the greatest means of sancti- 
fication, and the greatest security ibr an unblemished life ? Do 
you suppose that all these Catholic women and ladies are corrupt, 
tolerant of insult, and devoid of self-respect?” 

“ There is great force in that,” replied Alban, with his wonted 
candor. 

“ How is it that Catholic women always entertain an exalted 
opinion of the goodness, and very frequently of the sanctity, of their 
own confessor ? For it is a fact that they do. I have heard priests 
accused by their female penitents of severity, of impatience in 
listening to confessions, which are often of a tiresome and useless 
character, -or of being prosy themselves, but never once did I hear 
a complaint of being rudely or improperly questioned. Priests are 
generally prudent men, to say the least, with a perfect knowledge 
of M'hat is expected of them. The morals of the confessional, and 
its proprieties, are well understood, and are rigidly enforced by the 
law of the Church. And what is more, Mr. Atherton, a consid- 
erable number of our clergy — quite enough to raise the tone of 
the whole body — are saint-like men, whose whole lives are passed 
in the presence of God. It is such who are always sought after 
as confessors.” 

“I can understand,” said Alban, “that it must be as you say.” 

“ 1 am not willing to stop there,” continued Mr. Clinton, flush- 
ing slightly, although his manner was calm. “ I am certain that 
the confessional is an immense safeguard to the purity of both 
sexes. You must bear in mind, Mr. Atherton, at what age chil- 
dren begin confession. It is at about eight or nine years. Now 
every body must see that a child of that age could only be bene- 
fited by being questioned prudently and in private by a grave and 
perhaps aged clergyman, on the subject of any sins into which it 
may be liable to fall. Imagine an experienced pastor, who is 
familiar Avith the heart, hearing the sincere confessions of two or 
three hundred boys and girls of that age. Of course he will know 
foow to ascertain whether they are conscious of any offence against 
modesty, in act or word, M'ithout suggesting to their minds any 


ALBAN. 


283 


thing of which they are happily ignorant. You know better than 
I do, in what ways Protestant children of both sexes corrupt 
themselves and each other at so early a period of life. But sup- 
pose they knew they must tell every immodest word or action 
they say or commit to the minister 

“ Ah,” exclaimed Alban, “ w'ould that I had felt such a re- 
straint pressing upon me when a boy !” 

“ There it is ! Catholic boys, and, above all. Catholic girls, 
learn at a very early age to avoid such things. The shame of 
confessing them is too great. Hence, as they get older, they are 
able to resist in the same way the first beginnings of more serious 
sins against purity. The vile secret habits from which, I am 
ci’edibly informed, not one Protestant boy in a hundred is free, are 
comparatively unknown among Catholic youth.” 

“ Are they indeed ?” 

Mr. Clinton told several stories illustrative of the singular in- 
nocence of Irish Catholics of both sexes, even at mature age. 
Whatever else they proved, they proved that the confessional had 
not tainted such people’s minds with premature knowledge. 

“ Why, it is the complaint of our old Irish people that the 
children in this country know what married people hardly know 
in Ireland. A young man of twenty-five, butler in a wealthy 
family, left his place because his young mistress offered him a kiss. 
No mortal would ever have known it, if he had not told his priest. 
What compelled this Hibernian Joseph to act thus ? Faith, Mr. 
Atherton, and the fear of committing mortal sin : — the last instilled 
by the peculiar and silent operation of the confessional. A beau- 
tiful young woman of twenty (I knew this case personally) a 
daughter of the people, but intelligent beyond her class, for she 
had been instructed in the day-school of the Sisters of Mercy in 
Cork, a gay, affectionate creature, married a Protestant in this 
country, away from her mother. She had been in the habit of 
going weekly to confession, and twice a week to communion ; she 
had once made a sort of resolution never to marry ; you would 
not suspect her of not knowing what her new duties were ; yet 


284 


ALBAN. 


SO it was ; and distrusting her bridegroom’s representations, after 
a painful struggle with herself, her love of purity and resolution 
to maintain it being stronger than virgin shame, she flies to her 
priest — an aged man — and tells him all.” 

“ Beautiful !” said Alban. “ I should like to have been cor- 
rupted in tho same way myself” 

“ There have been bad priests, and the tribunal of penance has 
been abused, like every thing good,” said the Catholic layman, 

“ but that does not prevent, Mr. Atherton, that one great motive 
of my return todhe Church, is my desire to secure its advantages 
for my young sons and daughters. And one thing you may depend 
upon, that if any thing can arrest the torrent of licentiousness 
which threatens to undermine the whole fabric of society in this 
country, it is this very institution. I was tossed about a great 
deal in my youth, and have consequently seen a great many coun- 
tries, and I know that in every land where the confessional has 
been laid aside, the common people are fearfully corrupt. Want of 
chastity is the shameful mark of Protestant nations as compared 
with Catholic. North Germany and Sweden, in this respect, are 
infinitely below Italy and Austria. England and Scotland are 
not fit to be mentioned in the same breath with poor, ignorant, 
down-trodden and degraded Ireland. As for America,” added 
Mr. Clinton, “ they say (you know best) that there is great 
purity of morals in New England.” 

“ We will discuss that on another occasion,” said Alban, rising, 
“but now I must really go.” 

“ I have said nothing yet,” exclaimed Mr. Clinton. “ I have 
not told you, for instance, how edifying confession is ; how advice 
comes home in that sanctuary of conscience, where your adviser 
knows what you are, for your own good, and brings a vast experi- 
ence, and the rules of a science perfected by saints, to bear upon 
your precise case. Let me tell you, Mr. Atherton,' since you 
seem so sincere, that to one who knows the comfort and solidity of 
this system, Protestant religion seems the most dreary sham.” 

Alban hurried away to the Fifth Avenue. It was past nine 


ALBAN. 


285 


o cloijk, but, luckily, the distance was not great. The interview 
with Mr. Clinton had produced a complete revolution in his mind, 
but one which had been for some time preparing. Pledged 
already to aid Mary on the morrow, he now resolved, or rather, he 
was anxious, to do so in the most effectual manner. 

Our heroine, still a prisoner in her room, was agreeably inter- 
rupted in her reading by her stepmother’s entering and bidding 
her come down stairs. Mr. Atherton was there, and had asked 
for her. 

The young lady appeared in the drawing-room cheerful and 
self-possessed as if she had been a domestic idol, and sat down 
with her work at the centre-table. The conversation ran pleas- 
antly till ten o’clock. Young Atherton asked for some music, and 
Miss De Groot played and sang with gayety and spirit — 

“ She’s married'the carl wi’ a sack o’ siller, 

And broken the heart o’ the poor barley miller.” 

A servant brought in wine, cake, and fruit, and Atherton, de- 
clining the hospitality, rose to depart. 

“ What a short evening you make of it by coming so late, Mr. 
Alban. Pray, the next time you call on me, come at six o’clock 
instead of nine,” said Miss De Groot, carelessly putting aside her 
work. 

“ I will be punctual to the minute. Miss Mary,” replied the 
young man, with a patronizing smile. Mary was not given to 
shaking hands, but whenever she did go through that ceremony 
she did it honestly and cordially. Alban, on the contrary, had a 
timid, girlish way of giving the end of his fingers to a lady. It 
was a trait, like the satin softness of the palm and tips themselves. 
But he really had muscle under all that velvety surface, and Mary 
De Groot, saying “ Good night, Mr. Alban,” felt an iron grasp 
which almost made her cry out. 

Alban, then, brave and faithful friend, would come for her in 
the morning, but how she was to leave her room was as great a 
ir-’stery as ever, when her stepmother locked her in as on the 


286 ^ ALBAN. 

preceding night.' Still she prayed fervently without the crucifix 
and heads of which she had been vainly deprived, and undressed 
herself singing hymns. She was full of courage, for she had no 
will but the will of God. When she threw open the bedclothes, 
a dark object caught her eye. It was a key ! * Those Irish girls ! 
She wept for joy. 


ALBAN 


28 ' 


CHAPTER X. 

The poor heathen father who was determined to keep his 
daughter from the arms of Christ, was a restless being that night. 
The devil who had possession of him tormented him grievously, 
and knowing that the believing maiden would else certainly es- 
cape, compelled him at last to rise from his bed, don his garments, 
and descend into the library to watch, lest his child should defy 
the polished bolts of her chamber doors, and come forth, according 
to her departed mother’s prediction, to wed a heavenly bridegroom 
and be buried with Him in the waters where the old Adam ex- 
pires. Eugene De Groot had a feeling that he was contending 
with the dead, — that the mother and he, who had once before 
struggled for the soul of their child, were now again antagonists. 
He swore that he would maintain his paternal rights against the 
grave itself Yet he could not but fear his viewless and loving 
foe, one of whose prayers, perhaps, could crush him in an in- 
stant. 

Mr. De Groot had a single candle, and he paced his library 
with both doors thrown open. One of these looked into the lobby 
of the private stair, the other into the" hall near the foot of the 
great staircase. There was a couch in the library — a green leather 
couch, and, when he became fatigued, he lay down on it to think 
and listen. His eye fastened on the iron chandelier of trophies 
hanging black and flameless over his study table. Towards five 
o’clock he fell asleep, and dreamed that his daughter had eloped 
with young Atherton — not to be baptized, but married clandes- 
tinely. All the possible causes of such a step blended themselves 
confusedly in his dream, gathering vividness from reminiscences 
of his own wilful youth and Henrietta Clinton’s indelicate behavior 
at school. He heard their carriage wheels rolling before him in 
the dark, while he himself, afoot, pursued the phantom fugitives. 


I - 

288 ALBAN. 

He awoke. The sound of wheels was certainly in his ear. He 
rushed out into the hall, where a taper on a tripod gave a feeble 
light. There was the broad, oaken staircase, with its green bronzes 
and flameless lamps casting monstrous shadows on the wall, and 
he beheld, slowly descending the highest flight, a figure like a 
bride, veiled, and in white, which now passed behind the bronzes, 
and now came gleaming into view. Was it a bridal veil, or the 
garments of the grave ? Was it Mary from her bolted chamber, 
or Mary’s mother from beneath the willow of the cathedral 
church-yard ? 

Mr. De Groot had been laying plans all night against the very 
occurrence which had now taken place, yet the actual sight of his 
daughter escaped from a room where he believed her to be under 
lock and key, smote him with terror. Your skeptic is proverbially 
open to superstition. This rationalist believed that he saw the 
spirit of his Roman Catholic wife. Gliding down the last flight 
of the stair, Mary necessarily approached him ; her features re- 
vealed themselves distinctly ; and the eyes of the father and 
daughter met. 

“ Whither are you going, my child ?” said the patroon, whose 
knees knocked together. 

“ To church, my father.” 

“ At this hour ! in this guise !” 

“ Mr. Alban Atherton* waits with a carriage at the door.” 

So saying she offered her father a mantle, which lay across 
her arm, to place it on her shoulders. He mechanically complied. 
She drew the capuchin over her head. Her mien was full of 
womanly dignity, which seemed to rise higher under the outrages 
it had received. And the name of Alban at that moment was a 
powerful support, as Mary herself felt. It is one thing to be de- 
spotic with a daughter, and another to quarrel with a stranger to 
your hearth. Nothing bends a purpose, however violent, (if it be 
unjust, unbecoming, or violent,) like the certainty that it is to pass 
under the judgment of a person whose impartial and accurate es- 
timate of conduct you know. The fairness of Alban’s mind, his 


ALBAN 


289 


calm, sweet temper, and a certain solidity in his moral constitu- 
tion, which gave this fine, smooth edge an irresistible force, pro- 
tected Mary without his presence. Mr. De Groot had himself 
made young Atherton master of the situation ; he had exhausted 
the force of his own will during the night upon an impalpable ob- 
stacle, and now he was led, like the fierce Assyrian, “ by a hook 
in the nose,” to do the very thing wh.ch he had said a thousand 
* times he would never sutler to be done. He accompanied his 
daughter down to the lower hall, took his hat and cloak from a 
hall-stand, composed of huge antlers of deer, and opened the ves- 
tibule doors. She fluttered down the broad stone steps to the 
, gas-lit pavement. Directly in front at the curb-stone stood a car- 
riage, and several persons. Young Atherton advanced a step or 
two, rather haughty and business-like. Mr. De Groot half ex- 
pected to see the point of a rapier protruding beneath his young 
friend’s Spanish cloak. But Mary tripped forward, as if she had 
been gcing to a party, and sprang into the carriage unassisted. 
With feminine promptitude she decided several questions which 
might have created difficulty. 

“ Get in, Margaret,” she said, “ and sit by me. Get in, Mr. 
Alban, and sit opposite me. Now, papa !” 

The coachman closed the carriage-door and mounted the box. 
Mrs. Dolman was left standing on the sidewalk. Mary directed 
her to get up with the driver, and they set oft'. 

Every minute or so a bright gas-light shone in at one or the 
other window, showing the faces of the party within the carriage 
to each other. Margaret Dolman’s countenance, being that of a 
stranger, naturally attracted Mr. De Groot’s attention. It pos- 
sessed no rich physical beauty or fine intellectual traits — still less 
that rare combination of both which made his daughter bear oft* 
the palm even among the lovely ; but it was marked by the 
sweetness and purity peculiar to practical Catholics in that rank 
of life. It is the ma.muet,udo Christi, and often infuses its own 
gentleness into the heart of the beholder unawares. Some reflec- 
tion of it speedily softened the sternness of Atherton’s glance, 

26 


290 


ALBAN. 


which at first said very plainly that he had come to do a certain 
thing, and meant to do it, let what would betide. Mr. De Groot 
even yet wondered what that certain thing precisely was, and 
why Atherton had intervened. No one spake till the carriage 
stopped at the back entrance of the cathedral, when Miss De 
Groot let down the glass, and called for Mrs. Dolman. Neither 
of the gentlemen said aught, for neither knew what was to come 
next. The coachman — a Paddy — helped the good 'W'oman down 
with tender care. 

“ Go into the vestry, please, my good Mrs. Dolman,” said Mary, 
sweetly, “ and let Father Smith know that we are here.” The 
old woman went up the creaking wooden steps and disappeared in 
the hurricane porch. Alban and Mr. De Groot successively bent 
forward and looked out of the carriage window at the church. 
Neither could fail to notice those singular adjuncts of the pile — 
the wooden lean-to, the boarded porch, and its rickety steps. All 
gave a notion of poverty and temporary shifts, which excited the 
contempt of the magnificent Anglo-Dutch patrician, but impressed 
Alban’s imagination more than the elegance and ecclesiastical 
dignity of St. Paul’s chapel. Was this the religion for the sake 
of which, long ages ago, in the dawn of its mysterious power, 
maidens of rank and wedded wives quitted before day the pala'ces 
of their consular fathers and husbands, to assist, in the dark re- 
cesses of the catacombs, at a rite universally execrated, yet pure 
and holy ? 

Under no aspect could Alban regard the poor shabby cathe- 
dral with contempt. He could not look without emotions of 
inquisitive awe upon one of the local centres and radiating points 
of an influence pervading the earth which some thought divine 
and others diabolical, but which all admitted to be, in one sense 
or the other, supernatural. In this unsightly edifice was the 
throne of a Catholic bishop, one of a thousand similar seats of 
spiritual authority, so intimately united together that each be- 
came a representative of all, while the highest was but the bond 
and key-stone of a common supremacy. Alban had been taught to 


ALBAN . 


291 


think, and, strange to say, the idea even now came over him with a 
mysterious horror, that such a church was one of Satan’s visible 
seats, and the worship offered in it profane and impious. And truly 
if it were so, the Prince of this world had a powerful and consoli- 
dated empire, militant, by his profounder artifice, not under his 
own banner, but under that of Christ. What more signal tri- 
umph could Hell obtain over Him who once conquered it by His 
death, than by converting His own appointed memorial of that 
death into a service of idolatry, so that at the very moment when 
His pretended ministers (but the ministers of Satan, in fact) are 
repeating the Saviour’s words, “As often as ye do this, ye 
shall do it for a memory of me,” His prostrate people adore a 
creature for Himself? — and they have done it well, for not an 
instant of time passes that a mass is not offered and the Host is 
not adored. Talk of an empire on which the sun never sets ! — 
of the British reveille drum ever beating as our planet revolves 
on its axis, and day chases night round the globe I — what is that 
to the unending oblation of the Catholic Church ? — what mo- 
ment is not a priest’s voice uttering, Te, igitur, clemc7itissivie 
Pater I in the low tone which is heard in another sphere ! — 
What moment are not a priest’s hands spread, dove-like, over the 
oblata ! — What moment — what moment is not counted by the 
hell which announces the silent and invisible coming of their God 
to prostrate adorers in some quiet sanctuary, in Europe, or in Asia, 
or in America, in the Atlantic cities, or the woods of Oregon, in 
the Alps, or on the Andes, on the vast terra firrna all along the 
meridians, or in the scattered islands of the sea ! 

It was into this vast fellowship, this society everywhere dif- 
fused and everywhere the same, (is not Popery everywhere the 
same?) — whether it were really the mystery of iniquity, the 
kingdom of Antichrist, the mystic Babylon, the harlot sitting on 
many nations, or the kingdom of the Son of God extending from 
the river to the ends of the earth, the rock become a mountain 
and filling the whole earth, the true Zion, the immaculate Spouse 
of the Lamb ; — it was into this society, so mysterious, and whose 


292 


A^,BAN. 


character, like that of its Founder, is the problem of ages — that 
Mary De Groot, for her weal or her woe, came to be initiated. 

Mrs. Dolman reappeared, and said that Father Smith would 
be ready in a few minutes. Then Sister Theresa came out, and 
approached the carriage window. 

“ Good morning, my dear Miss De Groot. Are you well ? I 
feared you were not, from your non-appearance yesterday. Mar- 
garet is here too, I see ! You adhere to your purpose ? Well, 
Father Smith is now at the altar, my dear young friend, reciting 
the psalms of preparation.” 

Mary sank back in the carriage for a moment. 

“ I think you may come now,” said the Sister. 

Mary motioned to Alban to get out of the carriage. Her father 
followed. She herself, when she stood on the pavement, seemed 
overcome, and was as pale as if she were going to faint. She 
leaned on Margaret. 

“ Shall I fetch a glass of water ?” said Alban. 

“ No, no. I must not drink.” 

The thought revived her. It was in great part physical weak- 
iress from her three days’ fast, which had told on a youthful 
frame. Sister Theresa and Margaret were obliged to support her 
in ascending the steps. On the last step she looked round for her 
father, who had slowly followed them. 

“ Forgive me, papa.” 

He was silent, and Mary added, “ God is too good to me in 
allowing you to be present.” 

Mr. De Groot suddenly advanced and took her hand. He 
was aware that the time was come — the last moment in which 
he could exercise his parental right of preventing by force the 
action which was about to take place. Once his daughter had 
crossed the threshold of the church, and physical coercion was no 
longer a resource. He held her hand firmly, and gazed sternly on 
the rest. The door of the porch was held open at that moment 
by Mrs. Dolman ; that of the chapel was already open, and a 
procession with lights approached from within. 


ALBAN 293 

You must return home,” said Mr. De Groot, with a fierce 
calmness. 

The Sister’s mild countenance expressed surprise ; Margaret 
exclaimed ; and the old woman’s dark skinny face, as the chapel 
lights fell upon it, was corrugated with indignation. Alban 
turned slightly away, when Mr. De Groot relinquished his daugh- 
ter’s hand as suddenly as he had seized it. His glance was 
directed to the door of the chapel, whither all instinctively turned. 
Somehow, in another minute all were collected within the porch, 
and the outer door had swung to upon them. 

On the threshold of the chapel was a group composed as fol- 
lows : On either side stood two young boys, with sweet, innocent 
countenances, robed in scarlet to the feet, over which they wore 
short, fine surplices, and each bearing a lighted candle. In the 
midst of these stood a priest. , His short Roman surplice was fine 
as lace ; a magnificently-embroidered violet stole was laid over 
his shoulders, like a yoke of purple and gold, the beretta covered 
his head, a book was in his hand. His long black habit was 
confined at the waist by a sash. To Alban all this was utterly 
strange ; as a picture beautiful ; but with difficulty regarded as 
the serious garb of religion. The scarlet cassocks of the boys 
reminded him of the Woman in the Revelations. Mr. De Groot’s 
eye was fastened with evident recognition on the priest’s counte- 
nance. Both he and Alban involuntarily retired from Mary, who 
stood with Margaret, facing the clergyman. The Sister and Mrs. 
Dolman drew back on the opposite side. There was a moment’s 
breathless silence, which was broken by the voice of the priest. 

“ What is thy name ?” 

“ Mary,” was the reply, in a voice somewhat faltering. 

“ Mary, what dost thou seek of the Church of God V' 

“Faith.” 

“What doth faith give thee ?” 

“ Eternal life,” answered the postulant, in a firmer voice. 

“ If thou wilt have eternal life,” said the priest, “ keep tne 
commandments. ‘ Thou shall love the Lord thy God.' 


294 


ALBAN . 


But Faith is,” he added, after finishing the text, ” that thou wor- 
ship one God in Trinity and Trinity in Unity, neither confounding 
the Persons, nor dividing the Substance. For there is one Person 
of the Father, another of the Son, another of the Holy Ghost ; but 
of these three the Substance is one, and one the Godhead. JMary, 
dost thou renounce Satan ?” 

“ I renounce him,” said Mary, reading, in a firm voice. 

“ And all his works ?” 

“ I renounce them.” 

“And all his pomps?” 

“I renounce them.” 

She gave the book to Margaret, as if no longer needing it. 
The priest interrogated her on the Apostles’ creed in a brief form, 
dividing it into three parts, to each of which the answer was, “ I 
believe.” Then he seemed to blow in her face thrice, saying in 
Latin and English, “Go out of her, unclean spirit, and give place 
to the Holy Ghost, the Paraclete.” Beckoning her to approach, 
he breathed in her face, in the form of a cross, saying, “ Mary, 
Receive by this insufflation the good spirit and the benediction of 
God. Pax tibi." 

“ Ft cum ?.piritu tuo,'' answered the boys with lights. Their 
young voices rung loud and clear, startlingly so. 

Alban had never before witnessed any Catholic rite, had never 
stood even at the threshold of a Catholic church, or distinguished 
a Catholic priest. He naturally watched every movement, and 
listened to every word with closest attention. It would be giving 
him altogether too great a superiority to the prejudices of education 
to suppose that these insufflations and the accompanying words 
did not appear to him superstitious. Mary stood near the clergy- 
man, and_ Margaret had put back the hood of her mantle. He 
signed her with the sign of the cross. 

''Mary, receive the sign of the cross as well in the forehead 
as in the breast : receive the faith of the heavenly precepts ; be 
such in manners that thou mayest now be the temple of God ; and 
entering the Church of God, joyfully acknowledge thyself to have 


ALBAN. 


295 


escaped the snares of death : abhor the Arian and Socmian per- 
fidy ; worship God, the Father Almighty, and Jesus Christ, His 
only Son, our Lord, who will come to judge the living and the 
dead, and the world by fire.” 

The surpliced boys said, “ Amen.” 

“ Let us pray,” said the priest. The prayer spoke of God’s 
handmaid Mary, {famulam tuam Mariam,) now wandering, un- 
certain and doubtful in the night of this world, and besought the 
Holy Lord, the Almighty Father, the Eternal God, to show her 
the way of truth and of the acknowledgment of Himself, that the 
eyes of ner heart being unsealed, she might recognize Him, one 
God the Father in the Son, and the Son in the Father, with the 
Holy Ghost, and reap the fruit of that confession both here and in 
the world to come ; and Atherton perceived that Mary was con- 
sidered as still unacquainted with God. But the rite rapidly pro- 
ceeded. 

The priest signed the candidate with the sign of the cross in 
her forehead, and on several other places, saying, 

“ I sign thy forehead that thou mayest receive the cross of 
the Lord. 

“ I sign thine ears that thou mayest hear the divine pre- 
cepts. 

“ I sign thine eyes that thou mayest see the Brightness of 
God. 

“ I sign thy nostrils that thou mayest perceive the odor of 
the sweetness of Christ. 

“ I sign thy mouth that thou mayest speak the words of 

life. 

“ I sign thy breast that thou mayest believe in God. 

“ I sign thy shoulders that thou mayest receive the yoke of 
his service.” 

And as Mary, whose neck and shoulders Margaret had bared, 
raised herself from bending before the priest after the last words, 
he signed her whole body, but without touching her, saying, 

“ I sign thee all, in the name of the Father tj*, and of the 


296 


ALBAN. 


Son and of the Holy Ghost that thou mayest have eternal 
life, and live for ever and ever.” 

“ Amen.” 

“ Oremtis" again — and the priest rapidly recited several Latin 
prayers, of which the purport was that this “ Elect one, this hand- 
maid of God, might be kept by the power of the Lord’s cross, and 
the efficacy of His mercy, so that from the rudiments of faith to 
which she had now been called, she might proceed day by day till 
she could fitly approach the grace of Baptism, arrive at the glory 
of regeneration, and what she could not obtain by nature, rejoice 
to have received by grace,” always through Christ our Lord. And 
now followed a very superstitious part of this strange ceremony — 
the blessing and exorcism of salt, which one of the innocent-look- 
ing surpliced boys gravely presented in a silver vessel. The priest 
read a long Latin prayer, interspersed with ever so many crossings. 
We translate, that our readers, before they unawares adopt it, may 
see what a singular religion the Catholic is. 

“ I exorcise thee, creature of salt, in the name of God the 
Father Almighty, and in the charity of our Lord Jesus Christ, 
and in the virtue of the Holy Ghost. I exorcise thee by the liv- 
ing God by the holy God by the God who created thee for 
the safeguard of mankind, and commanded thee to be consecrated 
by his servants for the people coming to the simplicity of faith, 
that in the name of the Holy Trinity thou mayest be made a sal- 
utary sacrament to put the enemy to flight. Therefore we ask of 
thee. Lord our God, that sanctifying thou wouldst sanctify and 
blessing thou wouldst bless this creature of salt, that it may 
become to all who receive it a perfect medicine, abiding in their 
entrails, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall come to 
judge the quick and the dead, and the world by fire.” 

And then the priest put some of the salt on the tongue of the 
young catechumen, adding, “ Mary, receive the salt of wisdom : 
be it a propitiation to thee unto eternal life.” — “ Amen .” — “ Pax 
tibi .” — “ Et cum spiritu Uw ." — More Latin prayers followed, to 
the efiect that the God of their fathers, the Author of all truth, 


ALBAN. 


297 


would look upon His handmaid, Mary, and as she had “ lasted 
that first food of salt, not permit her longer to thirst, but bring her 
to the laver of regeneration.” 

“ Elect one, pray. Bend the knee, and say, our Father." 

And Mary knelt before the priest and said the Lord’s Prayer. 

“ Rise. Finish thy prayer and say, Amen." 

“Amen," {rising.) 

“ Sign her,” said the priest to Margaret, and to the young 
Elect he added — “ Approach,” — and Margaret signed Mary on 
the forehead, completing the priest’s sentence, “ In the name of 
the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost — an action 
and words which the priest immediately ratified by repeating. 
And then followed the strangest prayer of all, or rather, a series 
of prayers and adjurations, rising like the fearful note which shall 
prepare for the last regeneration. It was awful to hear in that 
poor porch. The priest lifted his hand over her head. 

“ God of Heaven, God of Earth, God of Angels, God of Arch- 
angels, God of Patriarchs, God of Prophets, God of Apostles, God 
of Martyrs, God of Confessors, God of Virgins, God of all that live 
well, God, to whom every tongue confesses, and every knee bends, 
of heavenly, earthly, and infernal beings : I invoke Thee, Lord, 
upon this Thy handmaid Mary, that Thou wouldst deign to keep 
her, and bring her to the grace of Thy baptism. Through Christ 
our Lord.” 

“ Amen" was the voice of the young light-bearers. 

“ Therefore, cursed devil, recognize thy sentence, and give 
honor to the true and living God ; give honor to Jesus Christ, His 
Son, and to the Holy Ghost ; and depart from this handmaid of 
God, Mary ; for God and our Lord Jesus Christ has deigned to 
call her to His holy grace and to the font of baptism, and this 
sign of the holy cross which we give her in the forehead, do 
thou, cursed devil, never dare to violate. By the same Christ our 
Lord, who will come to judge the living and the dead, and the 
world by fire.” 

‘ Amen," they replied. 


298 


ALBAN. 


“ Pray, Elect one. Bend the knee and say, Our Father." 

And Mary knelt before the priest, and said the Lord’s Prayer 

“ Rise. Finish thy prayer and say, Amen" 

“ Amen" {rising.) 

And the priest said to Margaret, “Sign her,” and to the 
Elect, “ Approach and Margaret signed her forehead, comple- 
ting the invitation’ in the name of the Trinity, and the priest rati- 
fied it as before, by repeating both the action and words of the 
godmother. And the priest once more raised his hand over her 
head. It was a prayer to the “God of Abraham, Isaac, and 
Jacob, who appeared to Moses in Sinai, and brought the children 
of Israel out of Egypt, deputing to them the Angel of his pity to 
guard them day and night, that He would deign to send His holy 
Angel from Heaven to guard this His handmaid, Mary, and bring 
her to. the grace of Baptism, through Christ our Lord.” 

And the light-bearers said, “ Amen." 

“ Pray, Elect one. Bend the knee and say. Our Father." 

And it was all done the third time. At the end, the priest, 
with his hand still lifted over her head, said, 

“ I exorcise thee, unclean spirit, by the Father and the 
Son and the Holy Ghost «>J<, that thou mayest go out and 
depart from this handmaid of God, Mary. For He commands 
thee, cursed, damned one, who opened the eyes of the born blind, 
and raised Lazarus on the fourth day from the tomb. 

“ Therefore, cursed devil, recognize thy sentence, and give 
honor to the true and living God, give honor to Jesus Christ His 
Son, and to the Holy Ghost, and depart from this handmaid of 
God, Mary ; for God and our Lord Jesus Christ has deigned to 
call her to His holy grace and to the font of Baptism, and this 
sign of the holy cross which we place on her forehead, do thou, 
cursed devil, never dare to violate. By the same Christ our Lord, 
who will come to judge the quick and the dead, and the world by 
fire.” 

And the boys still answered, “ Ameji." 

He raised his hand over the head of the catechumen once 


ALBAN. 


299 


mofe— yes, once more — and said, as she bowed before him, “ Let 
us pray.” 

“ I entreat thy eternal and most just pity. Holy Lord, Almighty 
Father, Eternal God, Author of light and truth, upon this thy 
handmaid, Mary, that thou wouldst vouchsafe to illuminate her 
with the light of the intelligence proceeding from thee : cleanse 
and sanctify her : give her the true science, that she may be made 
worthy to approach the grace of thy Baptism, hold a firm hope, 
a right counsel, a holy doctrine, that she may be fit to receive thy 
grace. Through Christ our Lord.” 

And those boys in scarlet and fine linen answered, as berore, 
“ Amen." 

He gave the end of the violet stole into her hand, and said, 
“ Mary, enter into the holy Church of God, that thou mayest re- 
ceive the heavenly benediction from the Lord Jesus Christ, and 
have part with Him and His saints.” 

And the boys answered, “Amen." 

Rapid in coinpai'ison was the remainder of the rite, of which 
the mere preparation had been so long, and, one may say, tedious. 
Many are the steps of the Temple, and its porch is many-col- 
umned and deep ; but once you have entered the gate — crossed 
the threshold — and the pure light shines, the cleansing water 
flows in a perennial stream. Holding the priest’s stole, Mary en- 
tered the church, and, taught by the Sister, (for all accompanied 
her), fell upon her knees and adored, touching the chapel floor 
with her oft-signed brow. She rose and now recited with the 
priest the Apostles’ creed, and Lord’s prayer. He imposed or held 
his hand again over her head. It was another exorcism, but he 
signed her not again with the cross in pronodncing it. It reminded 
Satan of the day of judgment at hand, the day of everlasting pun- 
ishment, the day which should come as a burning oven, in which 
everlasting destruction was prepared for him and all his angels. 
It bade him, therefore, “ damned one, and to be damned hereaf- 
ter,” give honor, as before, to the living God, the eternal Trinity, 
in whose name and power he was commanded, whoever he was. 


/ 


300 


ALBAN. 


impure spirit, “to go out and depart from this handmaid of God, 
Mary, whom to-day the same God and our Lord Jesus Christ had 
deigned to call by a gift, to His holy grace and benediction, and 
to the font of Baptism, that she might become His temple by the 
water of regeneration for the remission of sins concluding by 
the ever-recurring adjuration, “ In the name of the same our 
Lord Jesus Christ, who will come to judge the living and the 
dead, and the world by fire.” 

With saliva from his tongue the priest touched her right and 
left ear, saying, “ Ephpheta, — that is, be opened” — and her nos- 
trils, “ Unto the odor of sweetness ; hut thou, devil, fly, for the 
judgment of God is at hand.” 

Once more he demands, “ What is thy name ?” 

“ Mary,” said the young Elect, pale and faint, in the midst of 
her friends, yet unsupported, though Margaret stood near. 

“ Mary, dost thou renounce Satan ?” 

“ I renounce him.” 

“ And all his works, and all his pomps ?” 

“ I renounce them.” 

The holy oil of catechumens stood in a small vessel on a 
table, and the priest anointed her therewith on the breast and 
on the shoulders, as she bowed before him, temporarily un- 
mantled. 

“ I anoint thee with the oil of salvation,” he said, “ in Christ 
Jesus our Lord, unto eternal life.” 

“ Amen." 

“ Peace to thee.” 

“ Et cum spiritu tuo," w'as the unwearied response. 

“ Go out, impure spirit," added the priest, drying with a 
napkin the places which he had anointed, “ and give place to 
the living and true God. Fly, impure spirit, and give place to 
Jesus Christ, His Son. Depart, impure spirit, and give place to 
the Holy Ghost, the Paraclete.” 

And now they drew around the font itself, which was 
opened, and a silver vessel brought to receive the excess of the 


ALBAN, 


30i 


hallowed waters. The priest removed his violet stole, and 
assumed one of white silk, but richly embroidered, like the 
other. In laying aside the one, he kissed it ; he kissed the other 
in putting it on. 

“ What is thy name ?” he demanded once more of the trem- 
bling handmaid of the Lord, 

“ Mary.” 

The reply was low, but quite clear. 

“ Mary, dost thou believe in God the Father Almighty, 
Creator of Heaven and Earth ?” 

“ I believe.” / 

“ Dost thou believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, 
who was born and suffered ?” 

“ I believe.” 

“ Dost thou believe also in the Holy Ghost, the holy Catholic 
Church, the communion of Saints, the remission of sins, the resur- 
rection of the flesh, and life everlasting ?” 

“ I believe.” 

“ Mary, what seekest thou ?” 

“ Baptism.” 

“ Wilt thou be baptized ?” 

“ I will.” 

The veil was removed from her head, and the mantle from 
her shoulders, by the females. Mary bowed before the font, with 
head and neck and shoulders bare, her hands crossed on her 
bosom, Margaret held her arm ; and the priest, taking water in 
a silver vessel from the font, poured it on her head thrice, in the 
form of a cross, saying once, 

"Maria, Ego te baptizo in nomine Patris*^, et Filii&J-*, et 
Spiritus Sancti.” 

No one said amen, but he touched his finger immediately in 
the sacred chrism which stood by the side of the oil of catechu- 
mens, and anointed her head in the form of a cross, saying, 

“ Almighty God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, Who 
hath regenerated thee of water and the Holy Ghost, and. Who 

£6 


302 


ALBAN. 


hath given thee remission of all sins, Himself anoint thee with 
the chrism of salvation in the same Christ Jesus, our Lord, 
unto eternal life.” 

“ Amen.” 

“ Peace be to thee.” 

“ And with thy spirit.” 

He put on her head the white chvismal. 

“ Receive a garment white and spotless, which thou mayest 
bear before the tribunal of our Lord Jesus Christ, that thou may- 
est have eternal life.” 

“ Ameny 

He gave her a lighted candle of virgin wax, which was 
brought by the dark- robed Sister. It was a noble-looking, gray- 
haired man who gave it, and then drew back into shadow. 

“ Receive a burning lamp, and keep thy baptism without 
reproach ; keep the commandments of God, that when the Lord 
shall come to the marriage, thou mayest meet Him in the celes- 
tial mansion unto life eternal.” 

“ Amen” 

“ Mary, go in peace, and the Lord be with thee.” 

“ Amen.” 

The surpliced boys, with their candles and scarlet robes, turned 
about to depart from the chapel, and the priest prepared to follow 
them : but ere he departed. Father Smith, bending down, said to 
her, in a low voice, — not the voice of a priest in the office, but his 
own — “ Pray for me.” Margaret kissed her hand, which still held 
the burning candle, and said, in a sobbing whisper, “ Oh, pray for 
me.” — Sister Theresa approached in tears, and said, “ Pray for me. 
Mar}',” and kissed her. “ Pray for me, I entreat you. Pray for 
the sisters of our society.” One or two old women, who had been 
kneeling on the chapel floor, hobbled up and whispered, “ Pray 
for us.” One said — “ Oh that it was me, if I might die the next 
minute !” 

But there was another sacrament to be received. The Sister 
took the candle from her ; the veil was thrown again over her 


ALBAN . 


303 


head. In a minute she was kneeling at the rails of the altar of 
the Virgin in the same chapel, where the candles were already 
lit, a little table .stood prepared with the holy chrism ; and the old 
ecclesiastic, whose mass she had heard every morning at seven, 
was sitting with a mitre on his head, and a priest for his assistant. 
In two or three minutes the bishop had confirmed her, had smit- 
ten her sinless cheek to teach her to bear hardship for Christ, and 
given her peace and a blessing. While she yet, lost and over- 
powered, thanked God for this second grace — the gift of the Holy 
Ghost Himself, and prayed for those who had asked her prayers. 
Sister Theresa put the candle again in her hand, and made her 
go into the church to hear mass. She knelt between the sister 
and Margaret, who offered their communion for her. Mary lis- 
tened to the mass of the Epiphany, (for it was the octave.) familiar 
to her from having heard it already twice. The gospels, of course, 
were the same as at that Christmas mass when she was convert- 
ed, although their relative position was reversed. She heard 
them now with the white veil of confirmation on her head, 
with the lighted candle of the neophyte in her hand. Again, as 
on Christmas morn, she adored with the wise men, but it was as 
one who had found the Saviour in the House of Bread ; again she 
bent the knee in honor of the Word made Flesh, but it was as 
one who had received power to become the Child of God. 

'‘Ecce Agnus Dei I Ecce qui tollit pcccata mundi 

It came upon her before she was aware. The Author of sanc- 
tity reposed in a bosom made whiter than snow by His Blood. 
Love Incarnate sought and folded in Its divine embrace a creature 
purified by the divine love animating the creaturely heart, and 
eHacing all its human stains. What joy, what peace, what puri- 
ty on purity, and grace on grace, did He not impart in that kiss 
of communion ! in the touch though under a veil, of that life- 
giving and immaculate Flesh which has ascended to the Father ! 

“ Let Him kiss me ivith the kisses of His mouth, for thy 
breasts are better than wine” 

Her father and Alban witnessed the communion from a pew 


304 


ALBAN. 


not far distant, where both patiently waited pntil the new re- 
ceived convert had finished her thanksgiving. The bishop w^as 
in the vestry when the party passed through, returning to their 
carriage. He wdshed to speak to the young convert, who knelt 
for his blessing. 

“ My dear demoiselle,'^ said the purple-vested old man, min- 
gling French wwds with English, and speaking the latter language^ 
w'ith some accent, “ you are fasting, you must be exhausted. Do 
not return home without some refreshment. Come into my poor 
house with your friends, and take a cup of coffee, I pray you.” 

“ You are very good monseigneur ” replied Mr. De Groot, 
speaking for his daughter, “ but our carriage waits, as well as the 
breakfast at my house, and I therefore beg your lordship to excuse 
us.” 

“ As you please, sir. I should be sorry if this young lady 
suffered any inconvenience. God bless you, my child. I thank 
Him for this auspicious day, in which He has been so good to you, 
and has consoled all our hearts by your faith. Pray for me.” 

The bishop and ecclesiastics made a courteous and very foreign 
reverence to the strangers, which Mr. De Groot, who w'as not to 
be outdone in politeness, returned in the most formal manner of 
the old court. When they got into the street Alban had some 
difficulty in realizing that he was in New York. 


ALBAN. 


305 


CHAPTER XI. 

“ Will these Christians come, think you, senorita ?” 

“ The young man is not a Christian, Rebecca, and the young 
lady is one still less than he : for she believes not the divinity of 
the Notzry, and has never been baptized.” 

“ I did not understand the young sehor to say that precisely. 
That she had renounced the creed of her childhood was what he 
intimated ; from which I inferred, senorita, that she is now more 
a Christian than ever. At best, how can you be sure that she is 
purified to enter the sanctuary ?” 

The young Jewess made no reply, though her brow indicated 
that the question troubled her. The mistress and maid stood in 
the porch of the synagogue, which was considerably elevated 
above the street. Many male Jews were loitering on the steps or 
about the doors, and the service within was already begun. 

“ I doubt they will not keep their engagement, senora, and I 
like not that you should wait here for them.” 

“ I will wait,” said her mistress, impatiently. “ And see — 
here they are !” 

A beautifully appointed chariot drew up, indeed, before the 
synagogue. A black coachman and footman, both bearded, coek- 
aded, and arrayed in many-caped blue overcoats, sat together 
on the blue harnmercloth, with a superb robe of fox-skins over 
their legs. A sympathetic smile, dashed with profound respect, 
was on their coal-black visages, when the fellow whose office it 
was, held the chariot door open for Miss De Groot and Alban to 
descend, and the face of the young lady was crimson as she set 
foot upon the pavement. She looked up at the two Jewesses with 
curiosity, being at no loss to distinguish Miriam by her richer dress, 
and particularly the lace that decked her ankles, and the immacu- 
late purity of her white skirts, rendered visible by her elevated 

26 ‘ 


30G 


ALBAN. 


position. They ascended the steps of the synagogue, and Alban 
introduced the young ladies. After a brief colloquy, the latter 
withdrew to the women’s gallery, and the young man entered, 
unquestioned, upon the floor of the Hebrew sanctuary. 

The interior was fitted up with much taste. While columns 
in the palm-tree form supported the gallery ; columns of scagliola, 
with emblematically designed bronzed capitals, encircled the Ark, 
which had doors of fine woods, and curtains of silk. The holy 
scrolls, exposed to view during the greater part of the service, 
were wrapped in embroidered silk, and the silver rods on which 
they were rolled, terminated in glittering ornaments of silver bells 
and pomegranates, which tinkled when the sacred volumes in use 
were borne in procession to and from their place of repose. Before 
the ark burned the “ Everlasting Lamp.” There were also nu- 
merous candlesticks, containing huge candles of wax, but the 
latter were not lighted on this occasion. Upon an elevated square 
pulpit in the centre, trimmed with white damask silk, the service, 
consisting of the law, psalms, and prayers, was chanted with fine 
effect by Readers in white albes. The Oriental separation of the 
women, the men wearing their hats, their peculiar physiognomy 
and singular manner of worship, their long, white shawls, and 
see-sawing while they muttered Hebrew prayers, or joined in the 
harsh thunder ofthe response, were very impressive. At one point 
all present prostrated themselves with so much suddenness that 
our hero was startled. 

“ Such then,” thought he, “ is what remains of the worship 
of the sacred tribes — the worship in which our Saviour joined 
when on earth, and at which, after His ascension, the Apostles 
still occasionally assisted.” 

Alban had every disposition in the world to be pleased, and 
really the rite affected him deeply. The chanting, use of lights, 
vestments of the Readers, prostration, and other ceremonies, 
reminded him of the Temple. But where were the divine pecu- 
liarities of that celestially designed worship ? Where was the 
sacrifice, and Divine Presence, and the lamb for a burnt offering ? 


ALBAN . 


307 


From the steps of the Catholic altar, that morning, he had heard 
a reply, which still rang in his ears, — “ Behold the Banib of 
God — behold Him ivho takelh away the sins of the world!" 
Despite himself, and as if by force, the conviction was wrung 
from his mind — that not here, but there, Avas the continuation 
of the Temple worship. It was an intuition above and be- 
yond all argument. That everlasting lamp pointed to a local 
sanctity, a divine inhabitation, which once existed. Had so 
blessed a reality ceased these two thousand years ? Impossible to 
credit its non-existence if it ever existed at all. And the victims 
which had ceased to bleed, the incense which no more curled 
upward from under the hands of the Cohen ! And the voice of 
prophecy — the light and perfection of the High Priest’s breast- 
plate — the abiding oracles of God — the power which preserved 
the line of Aaron, and inspired the lips even of Caiaphas — had it 
all come to nothing, and vanished like the legends of a fabulous 
age ? Not if it was divine. Was the Babel of Protestantism 
the successor of the Temple which was built without sound of 
hammer ; and where dwelt in visible glory the God Who maketh 
m'en to be of one mind in a house ? Was a system which left 
all doubtful, and which substituted emotions for morality — a 
debasing, inefficacious, no-creed — was this the heir of the proph- 
ets, and the antitype of the Law ? He had answered that ques- 
tion before. 

Alban opposed a vigorous resist/ince to these impressions. His 
pride recoiled from seeming to follow Mary De Groot, and still 
more from being forced by circumstances into the position of her 
lover. It was her father who had sent them to the synagogue 
together that morning, rather against both their wills, as matters 
now stood, and sent them in his own carriage, which compromised 
them both. If now he became a Catholic ? And Miriam ? His 
heart beat as he glanced up at the gallery of the synagogue ; 
and her figure, as she stood on the steps, floated before him. 
Then he beheld her dancing in her brother’s drawing-room, 
where he had played as a child. He saw her come bending for- 


308 


ALBAN. 


ward" under the crimson drapery of the folding doors, and appear 
in the sunset light, as at their first meeting. Then his imagina- 
tion kindled, and he passed, in thought, to the East. Ambition 
blended with passion. Adventure, conflict, triumph ! He was a 
conqueror, a prince : he laid the reins on the neck of pride. This 
w'as not the temper in w'hich he could embrace the cross. 

Meanwhile, Miriam and Miss He Groot were in the women’s 
gallery. Mary felt strangely out of place in it, and half-degraded. 
Miss Seixas talked to her almost incessantly — chiefly about dress, 
the opera, dancing, and her friend Mr. Atherton, topics more in- 
consistent with the sanctity of the place, if it had any, than the 
ceremonial pollution which alone the young Jewess had seemed 
to fear. Yet Miriam occasionally took part in the worship, and 
prostrated herself with the rest, wdth great apparent devotion. 
But she laughed the moment after, as she brushed the dust of the 
floor from her silk dress. 

Day after day of the vacation passed, and Alban became more 
intimately acquainted with the persons he had met. Livingston 
Van Brugh took a great fancy to him, and from a singular cause. 
In a rencounter of young men one morning, at a chess-room. Van 
Brugh avowed his unrestrained libertinism, expressing absolute 
disbelief in the existence of virtue in either sex. Alban broke 
out in such a hearty and contemptuous denunciation of these 
principles, that most of the others expected Livingston to knock 
him down. Instead of showing resentment, however, he imme- 
diately began to cultivate our hero’s society — a flattery against 
which Alban was not proof. Van Brugh laughingly said that he 
wanted to find out to what sort of vice Atherton was accessible, 
since that which contented young men generally, excited his dis- 
gust. So, with praise of his delicacy, and appeals to every latent 
passion of youth, he worked to inspire, if possible, a craving for 
forbidden pleasure. Van Brugh had too much tact ever to speak 
of Miss De Groot, except in terms of highest respect. He 
believed, he used to say, that if there was a virtuous girl living, 
it was she. But to Miss Clinton he was not so indulgent. 


f 

ALBAN. 309 

On the other hand, Alban learned from Mr. Clinton^that 
there was a discipline in existence designed to fortify man against 
himself, and a treasure of grace accessible to all ; by the aid of 
which, even youth, if it would, might perfectly triumph. Thus 
his bane and antidote were both before him. He used to see 
Mr. Clinton every day, for the latter never omitted to give him 
an excuse for calling again. And when Alban went away, Mr. 
Clinton would say, “Pray, go up to the drawing-room and see the 
ladies ; and if you have an opportunity of speaking to my daugh- 
ter on these topics — since they interest you — I wish you would.” 

Thus Alban, who was ashamed to call in State-street as often 
as he wished, and who purposely stayed away from Mr. De 
Groot’s, saw Miss Clinton daily, and sometimes alone. She was 
extremely agreeable — more so than Miss Ellsworth ; for she had 
seen so many things abroad that were interesting to Alban. Her 
temper was imperturbable, in which she had greatly the advan- 
tage of Mary De Groot ; and instead of treating our hero, like 
Miss Seixas, as a youth whom she was bound to amuse, she 
appeared to look up to him, listening with admiring respect to 
every thing he said, on the religious and moral topics on which 
he was stronger than on any other ; and, in fine, entered into 
Alban completely, just as he was — conforming herself exactly to 
him, not attempting to mould him to herself. Mary De Groot 
had an inward position of her own, from which there was no 
moving her. Her mind worked, and her heart glowed independ- 
ently. Somehow, Alban did not like that altogether, even when 
the heart glowed towards him. Miriam seemed inapproachable 
in her race and her womanly loveliness — in her religion and her 
betrothal. But Henrietta floated right along with him, wher- 
ever he would. She merely undertook to improve his manners in 
some small particulars — reformed his French pronunciation, im- 
parted to him several secrets of etiquette, and taught him how to 
tie his cravat. 

We do not care to dwell on these things, but the interviews 
we speak of, coming upon the conversations of Van Brugh, and 


310 


ALBAN. 


perhaps recallmg associations with Miss Clinton’s name, supported 
by much that he really could not help observing in her manners, 
threw a strange light into unsuspected hollows in Alban’s heart. 
Strange images would rise up, and flit before his mental eye, like 
bats in the dusk. Not that they looked like bats to him. They 
had, on the contrary, a beauty from which he could with difficulty 
avert his gaze ; they had soft, seductive faces ; their flowing hair 
was like the hair of women ; their forms were female to the waist ; 
and the rest was lost in a drapery of fiery mist. 

It must not be supposed that Alban did not visit the De Groots 
at all. He went there in the evening, when he was sure to see 
the parents as well as the daughter. Then they had a pleasant 
social time. You never would have supposed that of those four 
persons, one was a Pantheist, one a bigoted Presbyterian, one a 
devout convert to the Catholic Church, and one something between 
a Deist and a Jew. Religion was never mentioned, and if love 
was present, it was in a modest, quiet guise. The party generally 
played whist, after which Mary De Groot went to the piano. Her 
style was exactly suited to charm a domestic circle like that, pa- 
tient yet flowing, and delightfully accurate, without too much 
vigor ; and her singing a full-breasted, smooth warble, negligent 
of petty ornament, and delighting in pure simple efiects. Alban 
appeared very manly, and considerably recovered the good graces 
of Mrs. De Groot, to whom he was more attentive than to Mary. 
Twice he rode out with the latter and her father, and Mr. De 
Groot kindly placed a horse at his disposal, to use whenever he 
liked. Thus Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday 
passed. Returning on Thursday afternoon, from his first solitary 
ride, and skirting the fine (but then leafless) woods, where the old 
Lorillard mansion (now the Convent of the Sucre Occur) com- 
mands a view of both rivers, at the base of the hill he overtook 
a carriage containing two ladies. They were his Jewish friends. 
He had passed them going out, but at the New York trotting pace 
of a mile in two minutes and forty seconds, which certainly gave 
no time for recognition. 


ALBAN. 


311 


“ You went by us like lightning. I was very much afraid for 
you” said Mrs. Seixas, in a foreign accent. 

“ When you go 4;o the East, you will ride an Arab,” said Mi- 
riam, eyeing with admiration the black, wild-eyed horse, with 
fiercely curving neck, which Alban rode. 

“ And wield a Damascus scimitar instead of this,” — waving 
his riding-whip. 

“Exactly.” • 

“ We always rode donkeys at Smyrna,” observed Mrs. Seixas. 
“ They are safer, and none but Turks and Franks are allowed to 
ride horses in the East.” 

“ Do you go to Mrs. Clinton’s party to-night ?” asked Miriam. 

“ Of course. Is not the whole world to be there ?” 

“ I have heard so,” replied Miriam, with a smile. “ What is 
called the whole world in this corner of it.” 

“ We shall be great people,” said Mrs. Seixas — “ I mean at 
Mrs. Clinton’s party : — for we are to take with us a real Count, 
Mr. Atherton, who has brought letters of credit and introduction 
to my husband, from Baron Rothschild, at Vienna. 

“ I expect the Count to fall in love with your beautiful Miss 
De Groot,” said Miriam : “ for like her he is a Catholic.” 


312 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Thebe was something pleasant, and what is called aristocratic in 
the way society was managed in New York sixteen years ago. 
The wealthy families were fewer ; the rooms were larger ; the 
parties not so large, but more select. It was possible to dance at 
private balls, and even usual, and a young lady could attend one 
without having her clothes torn off her back, which often happens 
now-a-days. Mrs. Clinton, for instance, who was a leader then, 
lived in a wide basement house, (as it is called,) the principal 
drawing-room extending across the front, with three windows to 
the floor. The back room was equally fine, though diflerently pro- 
portioned, and there was an extensive back building with a dining- 
room in the basement, and a billiard-room (Mr. Clinton was fond 
of playing at home) on the first floor — a spacious, lofty apartment, 
which, when Mrs. Clinton gave a party, the floor being prettily 
chalked, was converted into a ball-room. What made this pe- 
culiarly convenient and agreeable was, that the windows of the 
billiard-room looking south opened into the conservatory, which 
ran the whole length of the back building, and was available on 
a party night. The music was always placed here. Thus Mrs. 
Clinton, who liked something of a crush at her parties, could 
afford to issue three hundred cards of invitation. 

By nine o’clock that part of Broadway was a regular lock of 
carriages. The guests as they were set down ascended to the 
bedrooms — gay with French upholstery and bright as day with 
tapers — to lay aside their outer wrappings. In the room al- 
lotted to the darker sex, Alban found Mr. De Groot, who imme- 
diately said — “ You have no young lady with you, of course ? 
Well, you must take down Mary. Let us go into the hall as soon 
as you are ready, and wait for them.” 

While they waited, Alban being extremely nervous, as it was 


ALBAN 


313 


his first party, Miss Clinton, so beautifully dressed that he did not 
know her, came out of the ladies’ toilet- room, and after a glance 
at the group of gentlemen, singled him out by name, saying, 
“ Mary wants you,” and bade him follow her. He did so, and she 
re-entered the apartment whence she came, parting the fair throng 
within. Here a bevy of damsels were admiring their toilets 
and figures in a psyche ; there one was adjusting her ringlets 
before the toilet-glass ; in one corner, a prudent girl was exchan- 
ging the thicker chaussure with which it was deemed best to be 
protected in stepping from the carriage to the door, for the satin 
slippers appropriate for dancing ; and there was a slight movement 
of apprehension and displeasure at the entrance of a young man ; 
but it was to tie Miss De Groot’s slipper — an office which the 
young lady, already gloved, with her bouquet, tablets, and fan in 
hand, seemed expecting from some one, but not from him, to 
judge by her ready blush. In a moment, however, at Miss Clin- 
ton’s bidding he had knelt at her feet, thanking all his stars for 
the happy chance which made that narrow ribbon come untied. 
He was not used to tying ladies’ slippers, his modesty was in his 
way, and the beauty all around confused him ; he blundered, 
and the young ladies tittered ; ^lary, with angry promptitude, took 
her foot upon her knee, turning away from him. But Alban 
looked so mortified that with a forced laugh she bade him try 
again, directing him how to cross the ties, and inserting her fin- 
ger (for the glove was almady off) in the knot as he secured it. 
When done, she dropped her foot and dress quickly, and took his 
arm. ^ 

It was a trivial incident, but one of those which sometimes 
are very important in the inner world, where our story mainly 
flows. It must be remembered that Alban’s feeling towards our 
heroine, up to this date, was principally characterized by esteem, 
which had gradually increased until it amounted to absolute ven- 
eration. The idea that her delicacy vi’^as in any way compro- 
mised in his regard, and that involuntarily, touched liim deeply 
There was nothing, however dear to his passions, which he would 

27 


314 


ALBAN. 


not sacrifice, rather than it should be so, was his generous 
thought. 

Mary hung on her friend’s arm, while a brilliant mass of both 
sexes flowed and retired through the folding doors, like the moon- 
lit tide through a water-gate. Her mien was embarrassed — not 
exactly because it was her first ball, for we have seen that she 
had, when she chose, a formed society manner, native as her 
graceful carriage, a matter of birth and early habit ; but she was 
an object of universal and inquisitive attention. People* stared 
and people whispered. Some faces expressed pity ; some, hon-or ; 
some, contemptuous curiosity. It was a protection, even to the 
daughter and heiress of Mr. De Groot, to appear with such a beau 
as Atherton, under these circumstances ; and it was an additional 
relief that attention was soon diverted to her dress, although she 
was not arrayed in that pure white muslin, so efi’ective and dis- 
tinguishing, which your heroines always wear at the balls which 
are given in novels. 

Father Smith had said, when the young convert had consulted 
him in reference to this party — “ Go with the intention of pleas- 
ing them” (her parents) “ and God ; but by all means, my dear 
child, be modestly dressed. A young lady who goes to a ball, 
as I am told they do now, more undressed than dressed, is an 
arrow of Satan, for the wounding of souls.” 

Mary, was a determined character. She did not ask, when 
her dress came home, whether, after all, there could be any harm 
in being decollettee so slightly, at her age especially. She might 
be a dowdy, but she would not be an arrow in Satan’s quiver. 
She had plenty of the stuff", fortunately, and with her own ready 
fingers — sitting up half one night for the purpose — somehow or 
other, she made what she was sure even Father Smith would 
allow to be a decent corsage. In those days young ladies did not 
wear the vapory tulles, and other gossamer robes, which are now 
the rage for dancing parties. A pink lutestring, changeable with 
white, which, in the evening, had a silvery sheen, extremely 
youthful and brilliant in efl'ect, was the ball-dress of the wealthy 


ALBAN. 


315 


patroon’s daughter. The most modest of her school frocks had 
served Mary for a pattern ; but to give an elegant, and even 
‘piquant character to it, she had omitted the sleeves altogether, 
substituting a single ruffle of Brussels lace. It had the most 
ingenuous air possible ; and many a damsel, with a robe half off 
her shoulders, envied that innocent toilette. So much to convince 
our fair countrywomen that their costume is still a subject in 
. which we are interested — as, in truth, it is one of great import- 
ance — and luckily, where we are now, every thing comes in 
play. 

So does dancings for instance. 

Some Catholic ladies, the gayest people in town, had sought 
an introduction to Mary ; she was separated from Alban ; her 
spirit rose ; her beauty told upon the male portion of the com- 
pany ; her modest garb inspired respect, for men are quick in 
observing those things ; and she herself determined to carry off 
her position bravely, By the time the quadrille was formed, she 
had more engagements on her tablets than the evening would 
have sufficed to fulfil. Alban’s name was first. Mary laughed 
as they took their places. 

“ Dancing was a religious exercise among the Hebrews ; you, 
I take for granted, mean to practise it Avith devotion.” 

“ Hang the HebreM’^s,” thought lie — “ Miss Seixas is opposite 
us, by the by.” 

“ And who is her partner ? How very distinguished he is !” 

“ By his decoration and yellow mustaches, the German 
Count, of whom they spoke to me.” 

“ How incongruous for a Christian knight — all starred and 
crossed, and red-ribboned — to be dancing with a Jewess ! She 
and I ought to change partners, by rights.” 

It soon appeared, moreover, that the Count danced better than 
any body ; it made him more distinguished, even for a count. It 
w'as beautiful to see him — now with his partner, now Avith 
his vis-a-vis. Miriam’s grand and plastic style has been 
described ; and a quadrille in those days admitted, though it 


316 


ALBAN. 


did not require, the display of it. Mary De Groot — a girl 
all over — danced as she sang, with faultless accuracy, which was 
made beautiful by her gay manner, just checked by modesty, 
bearing her head with a rose-like grace, and her arms, like 
wreathed lilies, over or beside her silver drapery. The Count, 
attending to all her movements with foreign gravity, appreciated 
her finely. She praised, to her partner, his thorough-bred 
respect, so natural and seemingly spontaneous — so unlike the un- 
tutored freedom which passed for ease with the native beau.v. 
They exchanged courteous French phrases as they touched their 
gloved fingers. Alban, on his part, flirted as much as he could 
with Miss Seixas, who gave him every encouragement. 

“ He is just the proper person for you,” said he to Mary, lead- 
ing her into the conservatory to rest. “ You know he is of your 
religion.” * ^ 

“ Which is indispensable,” she replied. 

“ Well, I think it ought to be in every case.” 

“ You of course will make up to Miss Seixas.” 

“ She is indeed charming,” replied Alban. 

“ Oh, what a pretty waltz !” 

The Count waltzed with the daughter of the house, the fair 
Henrietta, and Alban, who had never seen waltzing before, looked 
on, shoclvcd but fascinated. Henrietta’s dress was a novelty — 
white tulle, countless folds confined apparently by a silver gir- 
dle, over a rich white silk, and looped up with flow-ers. It flew 
behind her like a white cloud. Then the Count took out Miss 
Seixas. This was less objectionable from the magic of art. Miri- 
am’s slippers had no tie, nor even a heel — the fashion of Spain ; 
it was wonderful how she kept them on by the mere muscular 
action, her feet twinkling like moonbeams on weaves. Her 'rich 
skirts did not fly like Henrietta’s gossamer attire. Waltzer after 
waltzer joined the circling pairs, like birds rising from a copse. 
Alban looked round for Miss De Groot, but she was gone. He ob- 
served with a pang that Miriam accepted every invitation, and 
after watching her for some time with strangely blended feelings, 


ALBAN. 


317 


upon Van Brugli’s taking her out, he turned away and went in 
search of Mary. She was in a corner of one of the rooms, with 
the Count ; Henrietta was retiring from them and looking 
back. 

“ I do not waltz, sir.” 

“ You waltz not, mademoiselle ? Alors, il faut commencer^ 
But Miss Clinton assures me that you waltz extremely well.” 

“ I have not waltzed since I left school, monsieur.” 

“ C'est a dire — a week ago, mademoiselle. These are quite 
ideas de 'pension, I assure you.” 

He plead with so much grace and good humor that it seemed 
ridiculous to refuse him. Miss De Groot laughed. He even inti- 
mated that nothing could show off that charming classic style of 
costume but the attitude and movement of the waltz. He man- 
aged her as a gentle knight does a spirited but timid filly. 

“ I know some of the devoutest young ladies in Vienna who 
scruple not to waltz. There is Madame Washington Lynch 
waltzes, and she is a very good Catholic. I have waltzed with 
her myself, to-night, and she spoke of you in raptures. It is not 
a sin, I assure you, mademoiselle. You err to be so strict. At 
least suffer me to lead you back to the salle where they are dan- 
cing, and which your absence deprives of so great an ornament.” 

She took his arm and moved forward slowly, as if ashamed to 
persist in her refusal. Alban was so near as she passed that he 
could see the lace round her neck rise and fall. The hand which 
was free stole up to a spot where, doubtless, some memento w^as 
hidden. People made way for the Count ; Alban followed ; they 
got witbin the circle in the dancing-room ; the waltzers swam 
rourid. Miss De Groot stood by the Count, with her hand on his 
arm, and in front of Alban, who, indeed, could not extricate him- 
self from the position. In such a crowd, moreover, he did not feel 
himself a listener. Mary’s eyes were steadily bent on the ffoor. 

- “ I prevent your dancing, M. le Comte.” 

“ Ah, one turn with you, mademoiselle, and I vow to you that 
I will waltz no more this evening.” 

27 » 


318 


ALBAN. 


“ I certainly shall not waltz, monsieur, and if you please, I 
will not trust myself to look at the waltzing. I know, sir, that 
neither is a sin, but I have been advised that it is difficult to do 
either without sinning.” She turned. and perceived Alban, whose 
arm she almost instinctively took, relinquishing the Count’s. 

“ Ah, I see that you are formed to be a saint, mademoiselle,” 
said the latter. “ I will not urge you further against your holy 
resolutions. More late in the evening I hope to have the honor 
of yo'Cir hand in the quadrille. Priez pour moi,” he added, bow- 
ing and smiling. But in a minute he was again among the 
tA- waltzers. 

It was with Miriam. Alban could not help trying to per- 
suade Miss De Groot to look at this pair : the action of Miriam’s 
feet was so beautiful. The room was now so crowded, especially 
about the doors, that it was nearly impossible to stir from the spot 
where they were ; it was somewhat difficult to keep from crowd- 
ing in upon the dancers, and sometimes Mary, Mffio persisted in 
not looking up, was pushed against her companion, by some 
sweeping couple. Alban was offended at this strictness, particu- 
larly that she would not look at the graceful Miriam. Not that 
he wanted Mary to waltz — far from it ; he hardly knew what he 
wanted. Henrietta was now waltzing with Van Brugh, and her 
drapery brushed them as she went by. 

“ I must get into the other room, Mr. Alban : can’t you man- 
age it ?” 

They ran across the waltzers. Alban penetrated resolutely 
the opposite mass towards the front drawing-room. He was 
obliged to put his arm fairly round Mary, which caused another 
of her perpetual blushes. At length they got through the folding 
doors, and found fresher air and iced punches circulating, while 
Mrs. Seixas was the object of attraction. She sat indolently on a 
divan — dark, but clear as amber, superbly embonpoint, and 
blazing with jewels like an Orient queen, or one of the diamond 
images of King Zeyn. Altogether these Jewesses outshone all the 
other women present. Yet some how a feeling had been awaken- 


ALBAN . 


319 


ed in Alban’s heart, an idea (though repelled) had been presented 
to his mind, which made all the splendors of ihe world and se- 
ductions of sense seem dim and weak. In the midst of this scene 
so opposed to the cross in every shape, he had experienced one of 
those moments when Truth sends a piercing ray into the soul, and 
discovers to it the vanity of all earthly things. Was he the youth 
w’ho that very day had dreamed of a flight to Syria with Miriam 
Seixas, and a passionate retirement with her in the desert or the 
mountains of that clime of the sun, preparatory to a fierce career 
of battle and empire. 

At supper these sublime fancies received another shock. 
While our Mahomet was offering his Ayesha some oysters (which 
she of churse .refused) a careless youth ran against him, and made 
him spill some of the liquid on her dress. The individual who 
had caused this misfortune turned to apologize, and, in so doing, let 
nearly a plateful of the same mixture run over Mary De Groot’s 
‘pink and silver skirt. 

“ Oh, my pretty dress,” exclaimed she, in consternation, hastily 
wdping it with her handkerchief — “ How provoking ! I declare, 
Mr. Lynch, you deserve not to be invited to another dancing party 
this winter.” — But she caught Alban’s eye, and laughed, — “ I 
will make him pay me for it, and put the money in the poor- 
box.” 

Miriam said not a word except to assure Mr. Atherton that it 
was of no earthly consequence, but she answered young Lynch’s 
frightened apology with one look of her expressive Oriental face — 
a glance of her long Jewish eye — fit to have conveyed the tragic 
wrath of a Norma. 

' Mary De Groot would retire after supper with her parents, in 
spite of all remonstrances, although Alban offered to take her 
home, and her father rather encouraged the idea. In vain Hen- 
rietta called her a spoil-sport. The young lady was resolute, 
although very far from the appearance of moroseness. The 
brightness of her cheek, the sparkle of her eye, and beauty of her 
smile, rather indicated that the emotional nature was in a' state of 


320 


ALBAN. 


effervescence. If the various incidents of the evening had affect- 
ed her slightly one hy one, the repetition had at length awakened 
all her sensibility. But the voice of the spirit was clearly audible 
amid all the tumult of the world and the flesh. She was not 
forced to obey it, but she did without hesitation, humiliated by the 
temptation — the love of pleasure and excitement which she ex- 
perienced — but innocent of even exposing herself to it longer than 
she could avoid. It was a great merit in one so young and so at- 
tractive, who could not but feel herself formed to be the ornament 
of society. She would have persuaded Alban to come away too, 
but he said it would not do for him — a young man and all that. 

Returning to the ball, after handing Mary into her father’s 
carriage, he was caught in passing the supper-room by Van Brugh, 
and compelled to come in and drink some more champagne. 
Many other young men were lingering to eat partridges and toss 
off champagne after their manner. Van Brugh assured him that 
this wine was like so much water, which our hero, being unused 
to it, partly believed. It was a gay party which sprang upstairs, 
and encountered the Seixases also going away. Miss Clinton was 
teasing Miriam to stay. 

“ This must be put a stop to, Atherton,” cried Livingston. 

Miss Seixas turned a deaf ear to Van Brugh’s representations, 
and listened to Miss Clinton’s entreaties with an unmoved smile, 
but when Alban chimed in, begging to dance with her, which he 
had not been able to do all the evening, and offering to attend her 
home, after a yielding glance at her brother, who offered no oppo- 
sition to an arrangement then sufficiently common, she suffered 
herself to be led triumphantly back to the dancing- room. They 
were waltzing ; Alban had never wMtzed in his life, but wine 
gave him courage for any thing, and having learned to dance at 
an early age, before he was sent to that pious place, Babylon, he 
caught the step from Miss Seixas directly. However, one does 
not learn any thing perfectly at once. Mary De Groot had ex- 
pressed a doubt of the possibility of waltzing without sin, that is, 
as it seemed to him, without treading on his partner’s toes : for 


ALBAN . 


321 


the agreeable sensations which he experienced in being taught by 
Miss Seixas, surely there was no sin in those. She bore his 
blunders with an almost Christian patience, and only laughed 
very much when once obliged to stop to recover her slipper. 

Henrietta next offered herself to complete his education, and 
the difficulty of waltzing without sin was now very great, unless 
Alban had closed his eyes. Besides her extreme of fashionable 
undress, which had shocked our hero at the commencement of the 
evening, and was perilous indeed for her partner, Henrietta had 
adopted since supper a novel and spirited style of managing her 
drapery, instead of letting it stream cloud-like behind her, by 
taking it up on one side in a mass, and throwing the full skirts, 
fine as cobweb and white as spray, over her arm. What with 
the glancing arm buried in those innumerable folds of semi-trans- 
parent tissue, and the silver gleam of the under dress, it was 
irresistibly charming, and our poor Alban’s bosom was soon all in 
a light blaze of concupiscence. 

As the ships which approached the mountain of loadstone in 
the Arabian Tales had all the iron drawn out of them by the 
mighty magnet, and went to pieces, so it is with the souls which 
near this fatal coast. It is strewn with wrecks. Moreover, from 
the combined influence of the wine and the waltz, our hero’s 
head began to swim, and his fine judgment to become not a little 
obscured. To vary our comparisons, he had arrived, unawares, 
in that region of inward illumination, where the moral sense is 
eclipsed, and man walks in the twilight, or rather the penumbra, 
of the irrational natures. In plain English, Alban was partly 
tipsy. Fortunately for him, habit is still a guide where reason 
ceases to be a light. Physically, Alban could no longer direct 
his steps — he made strange gyrations in dancing, and addressed 
his partner so strange observations, exemplifying the in vino veri- 
tatem^ that Henrietta, for her own sake as well as for his, was 
glad to get him aw'ay from the company. Alban had began to 
talk about her school-days, evincing a knowledge more than he 
was fairly in possession of when in his sober senses, but which 


322 


ALBAN. 


frightened her sufficiently. He was giving her maudlin good 
advice, and finally (for how far the unprincipled school-girl lived on 
in the dashing belle, or what startled Alban into a sense of his 
humiliating state, our story requires not to be said) he broke from 
her \vith a stern rebuke, such as perhaps only a Puritan, born and 
bred, would have had the heart to inflict upon a woman, whose 
fault, such as it was, he had shared. In truth, pride went for some- 
thing in our hero’s conduct ; but the main thing was the fear of 
hell ; for he had fallen so far, at least in his own estimate, that it 
seemed to him scarcely an additional humiliation to fall further, 
perhaps even less. But come what would — seem craven and 
spiritless as he might — he resolved to flee. 

The ball-room was stUl full of light-hearted dancers ; the 
Count was indefatigably waltzing ; Miriam stood near a window 
listening, with a vacant air, to the compliments of Van Brugh. 
Alban approached, pale, but with a sparkling eye. 

“ One more waltz, beautiful Miriam.” 

“ Spare my tip-toes,” she answered, instantly breaking into a 
smile, and laying her hand on his shoulder. But he whirled her 
round the room without missing a step. 

“ Since you have really learned to waltz now, Mr. Atherton, 
suppose that we go home.” 

The distance that Alban and Miss Seixas had to accomplish 
was considerable, being nearly the whole length of Broadway. 
It was at about half-past two when the coach sluggishly stopped 
in State-street. Mr. Seixas himself came to the door to admit 
his sister, but instead of getting out, Miriam called to him from 
the coach window. He came down the old marble steps. 

“ Mr. Atherton has swooned in the carriage, my brother. We 
were obliged to stop to recover him, but he is not yet conscious.” 

Alban lay in the bottom of the carriage, with his head resting 
against the cushions. 

“ Why did you not take him home, Miriam ?” 

“ I knew not where that might be.” 

“ This is the home of his childhood,” said her brother, after 


ALBAN. 


323 


some meditation, “ we cannot deny him its hospitalitjL “ You 
are strong, Miriam. Help me lift the boy out of the car- 
riage.” 

Alban was soon laid upon the divan of the apartment where 
we first saw the Hebrew brother and sister. The scene was re- 
markable even for a metropolis which is the resort of all nations. 
Seixas was attired in an Oriental robe of scarlet and sables, having 
loose hanging sleeves. A high cap, in the same style, crowned 
his thick black curls. The jetty beard which fringed his colorless, 
peculiar visage, completed the ideal of his race. He regarded 
with a look tranquil as marble that .pale face of the youth, on 
which an impassioned expression still lingered. The attitude and 
garb of Miriam, who, drawn up to her utmost height, looked down 
upon the insensible Alban with a strange regard, were not less 
striking than her brother’s. The robe which Miriam had worn at 
the ball was of Eastern stuff, gold on a ground of blue, fitting 
closely to her flexible shape, but leaving bare the arms and supe- 
rior portion of the fine amber bust, where it had a border of gems. 
Her waist tapered so exactly, her bosom swelled in such harmoni- 
ous full waves, beneath this vesture, that nothing could be more 
admirable 'in female beauty. She lifted the skirt carelessly over 
one knee, the foot resting with graceful boldness on the yellow 
satin cushion of the divan where Alban lay, showing, w'hat a deep 
slit up the side often exposed, an under-skirt or petticoat of cherry 
satin finely worked in silver. The barbaric splendor of this dress 
was relieved by the perfect simplicity of her black hair with its 
Spanish plait, and by the light effect of a veil of white lace which 
hung from her comb, and floated like a mist around her. An 
enormous taper of yellow w’ax burning on a lofty candelabrum of 
rosso, shed a soft light on this fine group. 

“ Was this sudden?” inquired Seixas. 

“ He had been saying to me beautiful but impossible things,” 
answered Miriam, without taking her eyes off from Alban. ‘‘ All 
at once he laid his hand on his heart, and went off' thus.” 

“ Were they ardent things, Miriam ?” asked her brother. 


324 


ALBAN. 


“ It maybe. I never heard such before/’ replied the maiden, 
with haughty tranquillity. 

“ Were the lad’s actions as strange to thee, Miriam, as his 
words ?” continued Seixas, with a sudden flash of the eye, and 
turning towards her his astute Jewish countenance. “ A freedom 
passes for naught with the colder females of this land, which a 
Spanish woman would resent as a deadly insult.” 

“ Thyself, Manuel,” replied his sister, rather slowly, but with 
her eyes still bent down on Atherton’s form, “ could’st not respect 
me more scrupulously, in the days of my separation, than this 
young Grentile to-night.” 

“ A swoon from wine and emotional excitement is sometimes 
dangerous,” said Manuel, meditatively. He stooped down and felt 
Alban’s pulse, still looking fixedly in his face with those gleaming 
eyes. “ Remain with the boy, Miriam, while I seek a remedy 
which may rouse him.” 

The countenance of the young Jewess underwent an instanta- 
neous change when her brother had disappeared. She advanced 
a step ^d slipped down at the same time in a careless Eastern 
way, on the edge of the low divan. She took Atherton’s hand 
into her lap ; her soft, peculiar face, bent down to gaze on his, 
assumed an expression indescribably passionate. She remained 
thus, without motion almost, until her brother’s step resounded 
again in the next apartment, when after a momentary sidelong 
glance of her eloquent eye, she bent down still further ■<and im- 
printed a kiss on the youth’s pallid lips. For a moment it seemed 
that she would fling herself upon his bosom, but when Manuel 
again drew aside the curtain between the rooms, Miriam had 
already resumed the position in which he had left her, and only 
the long swell of her respiration lifting the gold- wrought silk of 
her robe higher and more frequently than before, betrayed her 
recent passion. 

“ Go you, Miriam, — for ’tis not worth the pains of calling 
servants — and dispose the apartment over this to receive the 
young Atherton. He was born in it, I have heard him say, as 


ALBAN. 


325 


were two generations of his maternal ancestors, merchants and 
exiles like ourselves.” 

“ That chamber is next mine own, thou knowest,” said the 
maiden, reservedly. 

“ There is no other where he can fitly he placed. Lock the 
door between thy chamber and his, if such a lad inspires thee with 
fear. Thou wilt do that at all events.” 

“ Nay,” said Miriam, “ I shall do so, of course, though not from 
fear of him. But do thou take the key.” 

“ If thy purity or my trust in thee needed such a precaution,” 
replied Manuel, “ neither were worth preserving. I might doubt 
him for a moment, for he is but a Christian after all ; but my sis* 

ter is above the very name of suspicion.” 

28 


326 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A.T about eleven o’clock, on Friday morning, our hero awoke and 
heard Trinity bells tolling. At first he supposed it was St. John’s, 
thinking himself in Grey-street, till puzzled hy the room and fur- 
niture, he sprang out of bed and ran to the window. The Bat- 
tery, white with new-fallen snow — the wintry bay, and the tide 
dashing against the old sea-forts — the scene familiar to his child- 
hood— told him where he was ; and then he looked around and 
recognized the room which, in childhood, had heen his. It all 
flashed on him — how he had drunk too much wine at a party, 
had unpardonably insulted one young lady, and betrayed to 
another the most ridiculous vanity conceivable. He divined that 
the Seixases had too well learned his condition, and had taken 
him in from pity ; for his memory was here at fault. He could 
recall nothing later than a violent spasm at the heart, as he was 
talking in a most absurd way to Miriam Seixas, in the carriage. 
Hurrying to the glass, he perceived a pale, haggard face. Inter- 
nally he felt an utter sickness and hollowness, a sense of misery 
and remorse. Glancing around the room, he perceived his clothes 
laid in order, with fresh linen, slippers, a chamber-robe, and a 
sLower-bath, with its curtains open. He hathed and dressed as 
expeditiously as possible, hoping to escape from the house without 
notice. 

While Alban was dressing, he adopted (as is usual on such 
occasions) several resolutions. First, he would write to Miss 
Clinton, retracting his unwarrantable observations, and imploring 
her forgiveness ; although, indeed, it was manifest that he had 
said nothing but what was true. Then he must see Miriam, (he 
would rather enter the cage of a lioness,) and beg her to forget his 
folly — at least, not to mention it. And he must certainly tell the 
whole story, so far as it was proper to he told, to Mary De Groot. 


ALBAN. 


327 


He had implicated her (fool that he was) with Miss Clinton ; and 
besides, it was due to her that she should know his weakness — so 
true a friend as she was ! Otherwise, he should feel like a thief. 
But what should he say to his father and mother, in explanation 
of his staying out all night ? After involuntarily imagining fifty 
false statements, he adhered to the resolution of telling the exact 
truth. Perhaps Seixas had already told his father, and would not 
Henrietta avenge herself by telling every body that Mr. Atherton 
got tipsy at supper ? Had Miriam made herself merry that morn- 
ing, with her sister-in-law, at his expense ? Would it be all over 
town ? Poor young man ! 

Recalling some of his impulses, and some points of his con- 
duct, more exactly, he felt thankful for having been preserved, at 
any cost, from such sin as he had never learned to contemplate 
without horror. We have not dared, and certainly not wished, to 
paint Alban’s temptation and Henrietta’s want of virtue. He 
was sensible of little else but the degradation of having yielded 
at all, though no one but himself and God knew how far. Still 
their hearts had met in that polluting sympathy, and who 
could tell when the bond would be severed, or into what closer 
fellowship of sin — opportunity favoring — it might yet unite them ? 
He resolved, on his knees, and with tears, never to see her again 
if he could help it. So he finished dressing and went down, 
hoping to make his exit unobserved, and meaning to repair to 
D-'lmonico’s for breakfast. 

He was met Jt the foot of the stairs by Miss Seixas’s personal 
attendant, who invited him with a sw'eet tone of arch respect into 
a room overlooking the Bay, and adorned with innumerable fine 
engravings, where a fire glowed cheerfully, and a table was spread. 
Tea, cofiee, and cocoa were proffered him by the sprightly Rebecca, 
and a dumb waiter, at her touch, brought up every other luxury 
of a Knickerboeker breakfast — except ham and eggs. A beauti- 
ful ^bouquet lay beside his plate, and a note. The last was as 
follows ; — 


328 


ALBAN. 


“ Dear Atherton, — To save your mother’s anxiety I dis- 
patched a line to Grey-street this morning, to say that you had 
kindly attended Miriam home last night at my request, and that 
on account of the lateness of the hour I had kept you. I added, 
that unless you had been sound asleep after so much dissipation, 
you would doubtless send your love. If I were you, I would not^ 
mention having been ill, as it might excite groundless apprehen- 
sions in regard to your health ; and I really think that your sin- 
gular seizure was entirely owing to your stomach being disordered 
by that confounded bad champagne of Clinton’s, which I have no 
doubt was made in New Jersey. 

“ Faithfully yours, 

“ Seixas.” 

The perusal of this note relieved our hero’s mind considerably, 
and when a cup of coffee had dissipated his remaining headache, 
he was able to do his breakfast justice. He inquired cheerfully 
for the ladies, and learned from his dark-eyed, intelligent attend- 
ant, that Mrs. Seixas had not yet risen — a fresh consolation, 
although it confirmed an opinion he already entertained of her 
indolence — but that her more youthful mistress had been up a 
couple of hours, and that it was she who had selected the bouquet 
for Mr. Atherton from the conservatory, as soon as she know that 
he was stirring. 

Fascinating and reviving attentions! Alban admired the fra- 
grance and happy combination of roses and myrtle in the bouquet, 
and asked if he could see Miss Seixas, not doubting, thoug-h sonie- 
what fearing, _ to receive an affirmative reply. But Rebecca, with 
a smile and arch toss responded, that at that early hour he could 
not expect a young lady to be presentable. Not that he must 
infer, continued she, quite in the style of an Abigail in Gil Bias, 
that her mistress was one of those fine ladies who in the morning, 
before being dressed for company, appear in a dirty and crumpled 
loose gown, and untidy hair, or flit from room to room in petticoat 
and stays, and stockings down to the heel, (the young Spanish 


ALBAN . 


329 


Jewess was evidently describing something, very common ;) — no, 
it was only the perfect modesty and dignity of Donna Miriam that 
would prevent her receiving a young cavalier like Seiior Atherton, 
in a wrapper, though white as snow. Alban let her run on, but 
when he had finished his last cup of tea, slipped into her hand, 
quite appropriately, a Spanish pillared dollar, and begged her to 
procure him a moment’s interview with her young lady before he 
quitted the house. 

“ Why, you see, senor,” replied Rebecca, dubiously, “ what 
you ask is hard and easy. No one need know it if you spend an 
hour or two with Donna Miriam, for the Seiiiora Seixas is asleep 
at this moment, and Moses has gone on an errand for my master 
to the upper part of the city, whence he will not return, I know, 
before three o’clock ; and there is nobody else in the house but the 
old black cook, who is so fat that she can’t get upstairs, and An- 
tonia, the Christian maid-servant, (for we must have one for the Sab- 
bath, senor,) and she never by any possibility comes into this part 
of the house unless she is called to bring wood or water, or a fresh 
scuttle of this nasty coal ; and I need not tell you, Senor Atherton, 
who were born in the house, that Antonia has her back-stairs. But 
all these favorable circumstances, of which another would take 
advantage, are just what will prevent my young lady from ac- 
ceding to your request.” 

“ Well, well, Rebecca ; enough said,” interrupted Alban im- 
patiently ; “ you can but deliver my message to your mistress. Say 
that I beg her to see me for a few minutes ; for I have — yes, I have 
an important favor to ask.” ' 

Rebecca retired with a shake of the head, which rather inti- 
mated her sense that no good would come of it, than any fore- 
boding of the hopelessness of her errand. She was absent so long 
that Alban was beginning to despair, although, by a common con- 
tradiction, he was not sure whether he wished his request to be 
granted or not, when at last she returned with a grave, flushed 
face, and with an air of mystery bade him follow her. She led the 
way into the back drawing-room, which Alban had not entered 

28 * 


330 


ALBAN. 


since he had renewed his acquaintance with his childhood’s home 
as the dwelling of these foreign Jews. 

' Rebecca closed and locked the white folding-doors between the 
two drawing-rooms, and let down the curtain already described, 
the solemn folds of which on that side were of dark purple, making 
an effective contrast with the old-fashioned white pillars and 
architrave of the doorway in which it hung. The walls of the 
room were adorned with Hebrew inscriptions in gold and color ; 
the seats and furniture were of carved ebony, with draperies of 
purple velvet ; and the means for lighting it at night consisted 
of silver lamps, ranged on tall stands or candelabra of ebony, and 
of antique silver branches on the mantel. A fire of hickory wood, 
laid on curious silver andirons, blazed in the chimney as in the 
time of Alban’s mother. At one end of the room stood a harp, 
and near the fire a table M'hereon lay a casket of ebony mounted 
with silv.«r. Rebecca turned the key in a door at the lower ex- 
tremity of the room, which conducted, as Alban remembered, into 
the back hall and servants’ stair. She also drew the window-cur- 
tains in such a manner that no one could see into .the room from 
the garden. Alban wondered that the girl was so long, and why 
she took these precautions ; but she approached him again befQre’ 
going to summon her mistress. 

“ Sehor Atherton,” she said, “my young lady is about to see 
you alone, although I begged her to let me be present at such a 
distance that you might say what you liked to each other without 
my overhearing it. Now it is very plain to me, of course, what 
this means, as well as her solicitude about your breakfast, and the 
pretty message conveyed in those flowers, which I understand as 
well as she, (and I hope you will take care my master does not 
see that bouquet.) She loves you, senor, as you doubtless know 
well enough ; and it can’t turn to good, for although she says that 
you believe our holy law, and w^orship only the Grod of Abraham, 
it makes no diflerence, since you are not of her race, and she is 
betrothed since she was twelve years old to her cousin Josef. Ah, 
senor, mistress is not yet eighteen : she is as simple-hearted as 


ALBAN. 


331 


a child, with all her lofty manners, and though she is loyalty 
itself, and chaste as the daughter of Jephtha, the blood which 
flows ill her veins is not like that of your northern damsels ; you 
must not treat her as you would one of them. You have one of 
those calm glances, Seiior Atherton, which show self-command ; 
think, then, for her as well as yourself, and do not by words, still 
less by caresses, to which, however innocent you may think them, 
she is wholly unaccustomed, awaken the sensibility of my mistress, 
which the more it has hitherto lain dormant, the more violent and 
uncontrollable will it be when it is roused.” 

The manner of the young Jewess was animated in the ex- 
treme, and her language tinged with a Southern poetry from the 
earnestness of her feelings. Alban was naturally much embar- . 
rassed for a reply, and before he had time to frame one, the quick 
ear of the maiden caught the step of her mistress on the stair, 
and she darted away wdth an appealing look. Miriam’s voice 
was heard without in a tone of impatient reproof, and the maid 
submissively answering. The young lady rejoined moi'e softly, 
and immediately entered. Rebecca closed the door, but before 
doing so, looked in again and made Atherton a quick gesture of 
warning. 

The first address of Miriam was always characterized by a 
lowly bending modesty. On this occasion she approached with a 
look of peculiar submission almost amounting to fear, and curt- 
seyed to him without raising her eyes from the ground. The 
usual richness of her habits w'as wanting also, her attire being a 
fine white wrapper, such as Rebecca had described, to which she 
had only added a Spanish veil or mantilla of black lace, placed 
with care over her head, and M'hich she gathered around her as 
if to hide the light robe beneath. Her black hair, which never 
was glossier, took a gleam from the fire, and her eyes, when she 
raised them for a moment, darted a strange soft light which might 
^be partly from the same source. Alban had never felt her pres- 
ence so softening, and this manner, united to Avhat Rebecca had 
said, disconcerted the apology he had intended to' make, and left 


332 


ALBAN. 


him in a perfect perplexity how to address her. He thought of 
the bouquet which he held in his hand. The flowers, doubtless, 
did speak a language. 

“I wished to thank you for this,” said he, somewhat coldly, 
perhaps. “ It is a kind answer to my last night’s presump- 
tion.” 

“ I thought not of seeing you when I sent it, Senor Alban.” 

She slightly turned from him, and bending her head, seemed 
to struggle with a feeling which he could in no wise interpret ; . 
then she advanced with a quick movement to the table, and 
opened the ebon casket with a key which she held concealed in 
her hand. It was filled with cases of red silk, containing a most 
surprising quantity of jewels. She drew out the glittering con- 
tents, and spread them on the table before Alban’s wondering 
eyes. They were apparently the ornaments of an Eastern lady, 
and of enormous value, — bracelets and necklaces of emerald and 
turquoise ; great strings of pearls ; a girdle composed entirely of 
brilliants ; a Turkish dagger hilted with rubies ; ear-rings, ank- 
lets, slippers, and velvet caps for the head that were alike abso- 
lutely one mass of diamonds. 

“ Take these,” said Miriam, extending her hand to him with 
an inexpressible air of sweetness and humility, “and go raise the 
standard of Israel on the land of our inheritance, if perhaps God 
will deliver us by the hand of a believing Gentile, in whom must 
flow, I cannot but think, unknown to himself, the blood of our 
sacred tribe. I have loved thee unawares. That I can no 
longer help,” she continued, laying her hand on her heart, “ but 
my faith, thou knowest, is plighted to another, and I must keep 
it. A holy enterprise cannot begin with an act of treason. Take 
these, then, and go ; it is all Miriam can give thee, though she 
would willingly have given all.” 

He was thunderstruck. 

“ E.xcept thou fly with me, Miriam,” he exclaimed, adopting 
her own tone, while he involuntarily drew near to take her hand,*' 
“ this is impossible.” 


I 


ALBAN. * 333 

She drew back a step or two, with haste, and made a repel- 
lant gesture, as if to warn him not to touch her. 

“ It is all mine,” she said ; — “ the portion of my Smyrniote 
mother. ’Tis a poor restitution for the heart which I owe thee 
and the person which is not mine to bestow. I shall be deeply 
grieved — inconsolably — if thou refuse it at my hands. What if 
thou fail in thy daring enterprise ! Have I not thought of that ? 
It will still be a thing to remember for ever, that, after ages of 
contempt, the sword was drawn again for Judah.” 

The more enthusiasm the young Jewess displayed, the more 
Alban’s embarrassment increased. To her the whole was real ; 
to him it had been but a dream — a wild revery of imaginative 
ambition. He was not, and never could be, a Jew. Why, in his 
moments of greatest estrangement from Christianity ill-understood, 
the cold reasonings by which Seixas had concluded against even 
the possibility of a Divine Messiah, had deeply offended him. 
Alban’s heart was never really divorced from Christ, and he felt 
that truth, now when a Jewess of whom he was deeply 
enamored, whose benevolence he had witnessed, and whose present 
generosity, as well as the sincerity of her virtue, excited his admi- 
ration, offered him an immense treasure to take arms against 
nothing else in reality but that name of sweetness and benedic- 
tion. Never ! 

It was a delicate ground to break, to let Miriam know that she 
was deceived in regarding him as a young proselyte of the gate. 
She faltered and changed color at the most cautious statement he 
could frame to insinuate the error into which she had been led in 
this particular. 

I am not ashamed of my faith in Moses and the Prophets,” 
said he. “ I still believe a perfect unity in God, and freedom in 
man, in spite of his weakness, Miriam. I believe that our justice 
must be in truly fulfilling the Divine Law. But I believe also 
that grace has descended from the Most High to implant this 
justice in our souls. I believe that a Jewess like thee, a virgin 
like thee, and bearing thy very name, blossoming like Aaron’s 


334 


ALBAN . 


rod, conceived and bore the Hope of Jew and Gentile alike — the 
Jehovah whom thou adorest.” 

Alban pronounced tlie sacred name in a manner known only 
to the Jews, and in which it is uttered by them only on certain 
rare occasions of awful solemnity, and Miriam who had been 
listening in a startled attitude, threw herself hastily upon her 
knees and bowed her head to the carpet at his feet. 

“ Yes, worship Him, Miriam,” continued Alban, with emotion, 
“ the Notzry whom thy lathers in their ignorance slew, but thy 
God and theirs.” 

“ It was not that I intended, thou knowest,” replied Miriam, 
rising with agitation. “ But be brief, Mr. Atherton. I compre- 
hend now that you are still a Christian, but of which of the num- 
berless sects of Christianity ? or will you found a new one ?” she 
demanded sarcastically, and haughtily averting her face. Alban’s 
reply was probably not unexpected, for her expression in listening 
to it altered only by being rapidly heightened into violence. 

“ The God of Israel has never wanted a people, Miriam. Yes, 
beautiful but unbelieving one, thy race is not more widely dif- 
fused by its exile, than the Catholic Church by its conquests.” 

“ It is then a woman whom you will adore ! I thought so,” 
cried Miriam, in a bitterly scornful tone. “ Is it not in the dark 
eyes of one that you have read the proofs of your new faith ! 
How easily I discern your falsehood !” She drew herself up to 
her full height. “ Gracious Heaven,” she exclaimed, “ why do I 
not repay this man’s treachery as in my country the females of 
his own religion would !” 

In her sudden jealousy and sense of slighted love, Miriam 
forgot every thing else. Her forehead grew purple with the dark 
blue veins that started up upon it. It seemed that her passion 
would stifle her. She caught up the Turkish dagger from the 
table, and raised it with a motion quicker than thought. The 
armed hand descended with such celerity and force, that, thoueh 
Alban caught her wrist, he could not so far divert the blow but 
that the edge of the weapon divided her fine robe, and the point 


ALBAN. 


335 


grazed her breast. He wrested the dagger from her relaxing 
fingers and held her in his arms. She looked at him wildly. 

“ Tell me,” she said, hardly able J,o speak from panting, “ why 
did you make me think you loved a Jewess, and extort from my 
bosom a secret of which else I had myself been unconscious ? 
And now I stand before you a woman — a maiden — whom you 
love not, but who has humbled herself to say that she loves 
you !” 

“ I do love you !” said Alban, with fondness, though shocked. 
“ Be a Christian, Miriam, not adoring, but venerating the blessed 
Mary, your namesake, and worshipping her Son, the King of 
Israel, as you did just now in outward act, and I will joyfully 
take you aw'ay, with the treasures you would so generously have 
bestowed upon me. But overcome this wild emotion, proper to 
guilt and shame, not to virtue and honor like yours.” 

“'Ah, thou mockest me, Alban. Yet thanks for holding back 
my wicked hand. God of my fathers, what would I have done ! 
But release me.;” — with a peculiar expression, struggling with that 
of pride and anguish — “ see, I bleed ; release me.” 

The dagger had barely grazed the skin, but the blood trickled 
fast from the scratch, and Miriam stanched it with her hand- 
kerchief, heedless of Alban’s eyes. Her look was of comjjlete 
abandonment and desolation. Like * most women of her half 
Oriental education, although sumptuous in the adornment of her 
person, she owed nothing of its shape to art. Miriam wore the 
black silk petticoat and chemise of Spanish Central America, 
the latter surrounded in the neck with rich yellow lace, with- 
in which swelled the untortured bust “like two young roes 
that are twins, v^hich feed among the lilies,” to use the compari- 
son of Holy Writ. What lover could behold, unmoved, his mis- 
tress thus despairing, with her own hand unveil her chaste 
bosom ? Pity, delicacy, gratitude, a generous desire to heal the 
wounds of her pride, (the same feelings which had carried on our 
hero further with MaryDeGroot in five minutes, than in months 
of an iniimacy full of interest,) blended now with a kind of 


336 


ALBAN. 


sentiment whicti Mary had never inspired ; and, truth to say, the 
M’isest and strongest have seldom come off conquerors in this 
strife. 

“ Hearken to me, JMiriarn,” he said, in tones very different 
from those which he had lately employed, and the young daughter 
of the South instantly felt the change — “ that which has touched 
thee so nearly, in my recovered faith, bears another aspect, which 
thou hast not considered. Had I, in spite of the reluctance of 
thy people to receive proselytes, become a Jew, thy betrothal to 
thy cousin, scarce just as it seems to me, would separate us more 
than ever, as thyself didst but now admit. But if thou becomest 
a Christian, thy conversion necessarily dissolves thy contract. To 
wear a mixed garment of linen and wool is forbidden by the Law 
of Moses ; so, for the baptized and unbaptized to be joined in 
wedlock is contrary to the Law of Christ. You will be free to 
bestow your hand upon me, Miriam, from the moment that the 
waters of baptism shall have separated you from your nation, as 
the Red Sea divided your fathers from the Egyptians. I would 
not seduce thee, Miriam, even from thy unbelief, as I must term 
it, by the power I may possess over thy earthly affections ; but 
thy human love may be His instrument. Who made and controls 
the heart, to open thine eyes, hitherto blinded by prejudice, to the 
light of heavenly truth. Think of that ungovernable violence 
of passion which has so long been hidden under thy virgin 
serenity of mien. Thy law condemns, but can it impart the 
inward strength thou needest to restrain it ? Has it power to 
banish the keen remorse thou feelest, by the sense of innocence 
restored ? Christ can do this for thee, Miriam. He can remove, 
in a moment, the shame that bows thy head, and calm the tem- 
pest which agitates thy bosom.” 

Even during this address, Miriam had gently concealed her 
bosom, and a further attempt to hide the spots of blood upon her 
wrapper, by drawing the veil over it, showed that hope was 
reviving in her humiliation, and the faith that she was beloved. 
Alban, perhaps, ascribed those symptoms to a conviction produced 


ALBAN . 


337 


by his argnments, which were really due to a sense of her sex’s 
power reviving in the woman. Miriam, on the other hand, was 
not sufficiently reassured on that point, to dare resist the caresses 
with which her lover, giving way to his passion, now seconded 
his eloquence. He recurred to the picture which, in his delirium 
of the night before, he had drawn of their mutual existence in a 
remote land. The young Jewess, who passed from one extreme 
of feeling to another with Southern facility, murmuring a con- 
demnation of her own weakness, tacitly consented to all that he 
proposed, when the door flew open, and Rebecca burst in, an- 
nouncing that her master was approaching the house, and that 
madam, also, was just risen. The position of the young people 
gave a different turn to her exclamations. 

“ Oh fie, Setior Atherton ! is this your fine self-command ? 
your arm round my mistress ! Oh, sir, pray begone !” 

“ You don’t understand it, Rebecca.” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed, too well ! Will you go, senor ? What’s to 
be done with these trinkets ?” 

Miriam, regardless of her maid’s presence, leaned her head 
and clasped hands on Atherton’s shoulder. 

“ This is base, Senor Atherton. You will ruin my young lady 
without benefiting yourself. There’s my master’s knock. Now, 
if you wish my assistance in future, senor, run yourself and open 
the dooi for him, while we escape with these things !” 

At this suggestion, Alban extricated himself from Miriam, 
and darted off ; yet hardly had he taken a step, ere he felt 
tempted to return, for Miss Seixas stood rooted, as if despairing, to 
the spot where he had left her. Rebecca, seeing his irresolution, 
when every moment was precious, and observing, for the first 
time, the tell-tale spots of blood on her lady’s dress, became 
frantic, forced him out of the room with a violence approaching 
to i’ury, and locked the door. Even while he threw on his 
cloak, however, in the hall, the white raiment of the Hebrew 
maiden appeared above, at the top of the stairs, and Miriam’s 
hand, mournfully waving, bade him farewell. 

29 


338 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

It will be seen that our hero is gradually emerging into light, 
amid all the confusion Avhich his passions and the w'orld have 
raised. It is in the hour of temptation that the battle of life is 
lost or gained. Many are they who fall ; few the victors. But 
to be wounded, however severely, is not to lose the battle ; to.be 
covered and defiled with blood and dust is nothing. The point is 
to see who, after the melee is over, stands with his sword drawn 
in his hand, and his enemy gasping at his feet. 

Alban has made some points and certainly lost others. This 
entanglement with Miriam Seixas is very much in his way, and 
is likely to injure the simplicity of his course. He will be afraid 
to submit him.self immediately to the Church, which is the true 
and generous course for him to take, le.st he should be required to 
abandon his Jewish mistress. Any w'ay, dispensations v^ould be 
required, a formal marriage in the face of the Church must be 
resorted to, whereas Alban thinks of nothing but a civil contract 
and instant flight to a foreign land. As for poor Mary De Groot, 
her image recedes away into the distance again. In fact, her im- 
maturity has been too much against her with a youth of Alban’s 
age — which is the period of impatience, and will not w'ait for the 
slow ripening of the fruit it covets. If we represent love as so 
powerfully influencing our hero, and show his heart so inconstant 
and open to so many impressions, it is because the heart of youth 
is so in fact. Alban is far from being a perfect character. His 
intellect is first-rate, and his will has hitherto, upon the whole, 
acted virtuously, so that it seems congruous that light should be 
aflbrdcd him, but not too much. A man like him ought to act 
on less evidence than would be required to satisfy inferior persons, 
and if his passions do not prevent, he probably will readily corre- 
spond to whatever measure of grace may be vouchsafed him. 


ALBAN. 


339 


Alban has arrived at a sufficient truth, viz., that Christianity 
is one organized body. This truth, which pervades the New 
Testament, he has seized upon, and we may see how, if we attend 
for a few moments to his meditations on the day of his interview 
with Miriam Seixas, after his return home. Let it not excite 
surprise in any one, that Alban reverts to these topics after such 
a scene ; for the soul which is tossed on the sea of passion and cir- 
cumstance, like a landsman on shipboard, naturally endeavors to 
fix its gaze upon the permanent object of revelation, as on steady 
stars. 

His parents did not question him closely in regard to his stay- 
ing at the Seixases’ the night before. His father asked about the 
house ; his mother inquired in what room he slept, and whether 
it seemed familiar to him. She hoped that he had remembered 
to ask for the ladies in the morning before coming away, and 
then she recurred to the party at Mrs. Clinton’s. As Alban knew 
that Miss He Groot was not in his mother’s good graces any 
longer, he was particular to mention her refusal to waltz, and 
going away so early when every body begged her to stay. As 
Mrs. Atherton could not find fault with either of these things, the 
conversation langui.shed, and when dinner was over, both his 
parents disposed themselves for a siesta. His father took the 
settee, his mother dozed in her rocking-chair, and Alban, after a 
short revery — much shorter than usual — took down the Episco- 
pal prayer-book. Action indisposes us to dreams. He took the 
common-sense view of every thing now, and nothing disgusted 
him so much as unreality. 

When our hero first went over the Episcopal order of Baptism 
with Mr. Soapstone, he thought it beautiful. Now, with the 
solemn baptism of Mary De Groot fresh in his memory, it natu- 
rally seems nude as well as unpractical, and he is struck with 
the sign of the cross being left optional with the candidate. This 
Church in the very rite of initiation, allowed the catechumen his 
private judgment in opposition to her own. The postulant for 
faith was permitted to dispute and make terms at the font itself, 


340 


ALBAN . 


with those who pretended a commission to teach and baptize all 
nations. Nay, he rejects the sign of Christianity ! “ You are not 

to make a cross on my brow,” he says, “ I object to that old su- 
perstition.” And the Church lets him have his own conceited, 
unhumbled way about it. Where is the firm, unhesitating, au- 
thoritative tone of God’s conscious Prophet and Priest ? Where 
is the conviction that truth and power are hers ? 

“ No wonder the other old ceremonies of Christian baptism 
are omitted altogether. Of course it is foreign to the notions such 
a Church entertains of her own powers, to suppose that insuffla- 
tions, or touching the ear Avith spittle, or the tongue with salt, or 
the body with holy oils, can have any spiritual efficacy by virtue 
of the name of Jesus, or that devils can be cast out now-a-days by 
invoking it ; but still, M'here was her %ens,e when she failed to see 
that these rites associated Christ’s sacrament of spiritual healing 
with its designed types. His miracles of bodily cure, in a way far 
more instructive and more productive of faith than her cold textual 
deductions ! And when the regeneration is at length complete, 
and the new-born Christian stands before her, Avith the dew of 
the new birth upon him, what inexplicable want of tact leads her 
to substitute an exhortation of her oAvn for those touching allu- 
sions to the Lord’s parables, which the ancient Church employs, 
when she gives her neophyte the lamp of the virgins, and bids 
her Avear and keep undefiled the Avhite garment of innocence and 
sanctity, that she may have eternal life !” 

Alban laid down the book and thought of that character of 
objectivity, and almost of personality, assumed in this great action 
by the Catholic Church. She appeared on the threshold of her 
temple as a regal and sacerdotal society, dispensing truth and 
grace. Her every step, as she preceded her postulant to the font, 
was the step of a queen. Yet hoAv tenderly she reiterated the 
name of the ignorant, defiled, and demon-bound, A\diom she was 
about to enlighten, cleanse, and loose ! What is like this majestic 
mother ! You know her by her accents of blended authority and 
love. No false step-dame can imitate the sweetness that tempers 


ALBAN. 


341 


the dignity of the true Spouse of Christ. How coldly^n the ear 
fell the “ Dearly Beloved,” with which the English State-church 
begins, and the abstract tone in which it calls upon the congrega- 
tion to pray for “ this person,” compared with the individualizing 
address of sancta inater ecdesia : “ What is thy name ?” — 
'‘Mary, what seekest thou of the Church of God ?” The mother 
knoweth her own though future, and calleth it already by name, 
but the hireling nurse is not so. In the Episcopal order of Bap- 
tizing, Alban noticed, neither previous to, nor after the act, is the 
name of the baptized mentioned, but only in the act of baptism 
itself, where, indeed, it is the Catholic Church who suddenly 
speaks, a7id by the womb of her handmaid, brings forth children 
to God. And not otherwise was ti\e difference at the close. 
When the exhortation which this State-functionary, or this fash- 
ionable, secular, money-holding Corporation, addresses to the new- 
baptized is concluded, it has, of course, no parting salutation to 
intimate the existence of a new bond between itself — soulless 
thing — and the neophyte’s spirit : but the Church Catholic, true 
to Her maternal instinct, turns not her back thus coldly upon her 
ofispring : “ Mary," she says, as if it were a mother’s' kiss upon 
her infant ere she lays it down — “ Go in peace, and the Lord be 
with thee.” 

All this was but physiognomy, although as truly indicative 
of charactei to those who have the gift of reading it, as the lin- 
eaments of a human face. A deeper and more essential mark 
of difference between the true, living Church and the Shadow 
which mimics her functions, arrests Alban’s intelligent and scru- 
tinizing gaze. The Church takes original sin for granted, or 
that mankind are naturally lost, and regards herself as the incor- 
porate Society of the saved ; consequently she knows no other 
way of salvation but by being incorporated into her, which in the 
case of infants, who have not the use of reason, and cannot join 
her by will and choice, can only be by baptism. Hence she 
declares, without hesitation, that infants dying unbaptized cannot 
enter, heaven or see God — that supreme happiness which God 

29 * 


342 


ALBAN. 


owes no man and grants to no mortal out of Christ. The Church 
of England follows this view of the state of infants dying unbap- 
tized, and consequently refuses them the rites of Christian burial, 
for the just reason that she cannot speak of them as “ resting in 
the Lord,” (since they do not,) or imply in any way that they are 
among the “ blessed" dead. 

Imagine this vast multitude of souls lost out of the innumera- 
ble redeemed, wandering like pale stars in the illimitable outer 
night; neither offenders nor yet just; untormented, yet not at 
rest ; the undeveloped germs of spirits which might have shone 
brighter than angels in the blissful Presence, or groaned, haply, 
with demons in the lowest caverns of penal fire ; the unlighted 
lamps of Heaven ; the unkindled brands of Hell ; the failures of 
the Eternal Designer ; the mysterious abortions of the Universal 
Parent ! Flowers of Adam’s race, coldly budding forth into the 
unhallowed light and air of this w'orld, and swept down by the 
destroying scythe to which their lives were forfeit ere they began, 
before the hand of pity could transplant them into the garden of 
the Lord ! we weep over them hopelessly as they lie, without honor 
or beauty, 'on the cold, dead earth. Alas I Rachel mourneth for 
her children, and will not be comforted because they are not ! 

But the American Episcopal Church gives unbaptized infants 
Christian burial, as our hero observed, singing over them, “ Bless- 
ed are the dead who die in the Lord !” And she omits the sig- 
nificant declaration of the Church of England, that “children 
which are baptized, dying before they commit actual sin, are un- 
doubtedly saved.” The meaning of which is, that the American 
Episcopal Church cannot believe that the Church is the elect 
people of God, or that all Avho are not of the Church are lost. 
“ The consequence is,” thought Alban, “ that she cannot be any 
part of the true Church, which of course knows its own relation 
to God and to the rest of mankind. Any doubt or wavering 
about the terms of salvation is impossible in the Society of the 
saved,” said he. “ This is trifling with us. I had rather be a 
Jew, than a Christian on such a plan.” 


# 


ALBAN. 


343 


The inquirer meditates and concludes, but at the end comes 
some regular duty of his existing position. Mrs. Atherton sighed 
with pleasure when her son at length laid aside the prayer-book, 
and took occasion to remind him of the Friday evening prayer- 
meeting. Alban recollected that he was a member of the Pres- 
byterian Church, in good standing. Whether getting tipsy at a 
dancing party, toying with a wanton girl, (though he repented,) 
and proposing in the morning to run away with a Jewess, par- 
ticularly fitted him to “ take a part” in an evening prayer-meet- 
ing, he doubted. These little circumstances, if known, would 
scarcely edify, if they did not subject him — which was more than 
probable — to the somewhat inquisitorial discipline of the breth- 
ren. On the other hand, such was the nature of these societies, 
that a failure to comply with this duty would excite suspicion, 
either of some secret guilt or some heterodox bias. Alban went 

to the prayer-meeting, and Dr. did not fail to call upon him 

to pray. A young man from college is always a relief to the 
tedium of these occasions. When the brethren and sisters spoke 
afterwards of the exercises, young Atherton’s prayer was singled 
out for warm approval. There was a freshness in his perform- 
ances which agreeably roused the mind, and an unction that 
gratified the sensibility. Certainly, his prayer, that night, was 
unhackneyed. The rich quality of his voice, and its perpetual 
variety of modulation, contributed not slightly to the charm, and 
some of the females declared that, on this occasion, it affected 
them even to tears. 


344 


ALB AK. 


CHAPTER XV. 

After meeting, Alban walked down to the Battery, and watched 
the house in State-street for more than an hour, in the hope of 
seeing Miriam at her window. It was with difficulty, when he 
saw a light in her room, that he refrained from scaling the balco- 
ny — a feat he had a thousand times performed when a boy — and 
endeavoring to obtain a fresh interview, in which something 
definite might be agreed upon. His father and mother, who kept 
early hours, had retired when he reached home, and in his own 
room he found three notes, and a neat little parcel lying on the 
table. All were directed to himself, in female hands ; and after 
some hesitation which to open first, and trying to guess the 
writers, all being alike unknown to him, he opened that of which 
the handwriting looked simplest, and read as follows : — 

“ Fifth Avenue, Friday. 

“ Dear Alban, — I gather from your note of this morning, (it 
startled me very much at first reading,) that you have done some- 
thing which you feel to be wicked and silly, under the influence of 
wine. I am very, very sorry, of course, for you are a dear friend. 
There is no presumption, I assure you, in your taking that for 
granted. I wish you had a confessor, with whom you could be 
explicit, and who besides advising you, could relieve your con- 
science from its burden. Sometimes we are left to sin, to hum- 
ble our pride and teach us our frailty. You may live (I am sure 
you will) to thank God for letting you fall. Whatever you have 
done, I beg you won’t speak of yourself any more in that un- 
natural strain, as unworthy of my friendship. We are all weak, 
and if God left me to myself, I might become the most degraded 
creature that breathes. Assuredly, I shall never cease to pray for 
you. 1 send this by Margaret, whom papa kindly lets me keep 


ALBAN, 


345 


as a maid. She knows little of her duties yet, but is willing to 
learn, and I take a great deal of pleasure in teaching her. I 
thought it best to ask papa’s permission to answer your note, of 
course without saying any thing to him about the matter of it. 

“ Your afiectionate friend. 

“M. De G.” 

“ She is an angel !” cried Alban. It was like a ray of purest 
heavenly light shining in upon a gloomy scene, illumined only 
by red and smoking torches. He kissed the note devoutly, read 
it over twice or thrice, and placed it in his bosom. The next was 
in the third person. 

“ Miss Clinton sends her compliments to Mr. Alban Ather- 
ton, and acknowledges the receipt of his note. Her delicacy was 
deeply wounded, she need scarcely say, by what escaped him last 
evening, under a temporary excitement, for which she readily 
believes he was not to blame. She would be glad of an oppor- 
tunity to explain more fully than she can trust to paper, an 
occurrence which appears to have come to his knowledge, in 
which her conduct and motives were misunderstood. At present 
she would only observe that even last night she felt grief rather 
than resentment, in regard to what happened, and that she 
accepts Mr. A.’s frank and gentlemanlike apology as a full 
atonement. 

“ Miss C. has observed the strictest secrecy in regard to all 
that has occurred, and trusts to Mr. Atherton’s honor to do the 
same. Will he have the goodness to burn this when he has 
perused it. 

“ Friday Evening" 

Alban read this note also twice, and then, agreeably to the 
request of the writer, committed it to the flames. He opened the 
third epistle, trembling, yet eager, and read : — 

“ My brother found the poniard on the sofa, where you flung 
it when you had wrested it from my guilty hand, in that moment 


346 


ALBAN. 


of passion. Other circumstances had already awakened his sus- 
picions. He questioned Rebecca, and she betrayed all she kneAv. 
Manuel is not angry with us, Alban. I think he is flattered that 
thou lovest me. He forgives me for loving thee, whom he also 
loves. But he has convinced me — indeed, I knew it as well as 
thou — that unless I become a Christian I cannot be thine. Alban, 
I would abandon all else for thee but the religion of my fathers. 
I must see thee, therefore, no more. I have promised Manuel to 
accompany him, forthwith, to the city where Joseph Seixas 
resides, and there, if he will overlook what I shall confess, fulfil 
my early contract. How my hand can trace such words I know 
not. You are young. One lovelier, Avorthier, perhaps even now 
better loved, will console you for the loss of Miriam. ’Twere 
base and wicked, indeed — so Manuel has truly said — to take 
advantage of your inexperience, and inflict upon you a Jewish 
wife. You must not seek then — it would be vain — to bend my 
purpose. To-morrow is the Sabbath, and on the day after, we 
shall be gone. I send you a remembrance of Miriam and her 
weak love. Keep it for her sake. May the God of Abraham 
vvatch over you. Farewell !” 

It Avas all distinctly written. The parcel Avas a jeAvel-case, 
and contained the Turkish dagger. Alban could see Manuel 
Seixas taking it up deliberately, and fastening his keen Eastern 
eye on its ruby hilt, and crooked inlaid blade. 


ALBAN. 


347 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Alban slept soundly for six hours. Now-a-days, when you want 
a light all night you turn down the gas to a blue, imperceptible 
flame, but in ’35, our hero’s lamp was burning on the hearth. He 
took his watch from the pocket purchased of Mary at the New 
Haven fair. It was half-past five, and he sprang out of bed. 
There was no flowing Croton then, and in our turn we have 
almost forgotten the mahogany lavatory wdth its service of blue 
porcelain. It was a cold morning, and the ewer became full of 
ice the instant Atherton moved it. Hot water-pipes have put 
an end also to that : still, there was a generous hardihood in it 
which we half regret. 

Alban dressed and sallied forth, bending his course to the 
cathedral — somewhat distant. It had snowed again in the night, 
and a gusty wind had whirled the sleet into drifts. Over head it 
was clear and starry, and the morning star glittered in the south- 
east with a brilliancy which must be seen to be appreciated. On 
accoimt of the weather, mass was said in the chapel, more easily 
warmed than the church. The congregation, although it was not 
any particular day, (as the phrase is,) quite filled it. When Alban 
arrived the vestry door was open, and the confessional was visible, 
with a priest hearing the confession of a woman. After hearing three 
or four, he took ofl' his stole and left the box ; the rest were obliged 
to wait, and he soon came out vested for mass. A considerable 
number of persons received communion. It was over in half an 
hour ; the congregation partly dispersed ; but a second had come 
in, and the same process was repeated ; and now the confessions 
were going on without intermission. Alban waited. He did not 
perceive Mary, and began to think that the snow had prevented 
her coming. He was surprised, at the communion in the second 
mass, to observe her among the females returning from the altar. 


348 


ALBAN. 


She resumed her place in a remote corner, and he perceived that 
she had been there when he arrived. She staid through the third 
mass, and directly it was over, went out, accompanied by Marga- 
ret Dolman, evidently not aware of Alban’s presence. He joined 
them in the street. The two girls made their way with difficulty 
through the drifts and against the gusty wind. 

Atherton took Miss De Groot’s arm familiarly and helped her 
along : “ Really, Miss Mary, you ought not to walk on such a 
morning as this.” 

“ Mr. ■ Alban !” with a pleased surprise, and she went on, 
struggling with the snow and wind. 

A covered sleigh stood ready harnessed before the livery stable 
in Houston-street ; Alban ran forward and engaged it to take 
them home. In a minute it had dashed through the drift, and 
drew up jingling at the young lady’s side. 

“ How very kind you are, Mr. Alban !” 

He handed them in and paid the driver in advance, as if Miss 
De Groot had been a little girl. She thanked him in a simple, 
cordial manner, and asked him to ride. 

“ My way lies in another direction, you know. Yet I wish to 
see you to-day. Miss Mary. At what hour shall I find you disen- 
gaged?” 

“ At any hour which is convenient for you,” with great sweet- 
ness. “ I shafi stay at home all day to finish some work. Come 
when you like.” 

“ It will be in the afternoon, then ; as early as I can make 
it.” 

The young heiress began to expect her friend at twelve. At 
half-past four she was still expecting him. The southwest 
drawing-room began to grow dusk, for the day had continued 
overcast with spells of snowing. Since Mary’s return home this 
apartment had acquired an aspect of feminine inhabitation which 
it did no-t possess previously. There were flowers on the stands ; 
the piano was open ; a cozy group of seats had got formed in the 
corner where the young lady worked, between the fire, glowing in 


ALBAN. 


349 


its mantel of statuaiy, and the richly-curtained south window, 
with its balcony of stone overlooking the* street, hereafter to be- 
come so beautiful. At this time Mary could see all the way down 
the Avenue. She was at work on some strange little garments 
of muslin. Not to affect mystery where there is none, we may 
say that they were baby’s chemises, which Miss De Groot was 
making for a poor woman who lived in a shanty on one of the 
Avenues. Through Margaret she was rich in cases of real want 
of the most touching kind. She had finished a certain number 
of the little things, which were neatly folded and laid in a pile on 
a dark rosewood workstand. Close by stood an embroidery frame, 
with an incipient chalice-veil stretched upon it, and the bright 
silks for working it lay ready sorted on a tabouret. It was clearly 
the young lady’s intent to change her other work for this and 
hide the former, as soon as her friend should come in sight. 

At last, when it was so dark that she had already put avi'ay 
the baby garments, a cab came up the Avenue. There was a 
ring — a gentle ring which she knew — and presently Atherton 
came into the room. She did not rise to greet him, and he came 
to her cozy corner. They shook hands in friendly fashion, and 
Alban dropped familiarly into a chair. 

Had Miss De Groot been at work he would probably have 
begun by some commonplace observation, but it was not light 
enough even for embroidery, and she sat playing with the pencil 
that hung at Ijier waist. He alluded at once to her kind reply to 
his letter of confession. 

“ I feared that you would feel so disappointed in me,” he said. 

Mary waited some time before answering. “ You Puritans 
are so self-righteous. You can’t bear to be thought weak like 
others.” 

“ That’s the way you view it ?” 

“ Certainly. It has given me great hopes of you, to learn that 
your self-complacency had received a wound,” with a smile. “ I 
was quite discouraged about you, Alban.” 

“ I believe I showed my irritated pride, rather than virtue, 
so 


350 


ALBAN . 


in that part of my conduct which at the time I thought most com- 
mendable.” 

“ I dare say,” said Mary hastily. She played with her pencil. 
“ Let us not speak of it any more, I pray you, Mr. Alban. I am 
sorry you thought it necessary to accuse yourself to me at all. I 
knew you were human without your telling me.” And the smile 
became arch. 

“ I am going to consult you now in regard to an affair that will 
be a new proof of my humanity.” 

“ I dare say,” replied the young lady, her dark eyes gleaming 
with witchery in that blended fire and twilight. 

“I must premise,” said Alban, with some confusion, “that I 
have got over my Jewish notions.” 

“ I am glad to hear it.” 

“ I believe you would say that pride and earthliness were 
behind the fact of so strange an aberration.” 

“ I don’t know. Father Smith says that sincere and humble 
persons who have never known the truth, may wander very 
strangely in seeking it.” 

“ I had sincerity enough, but precious little humility, I am 
afraid. And how worldly — really how sensual — shocks me to 
think. The hope of another life — the trampling upon this — of- 
fended me. I desired my Paradise here. 

“ God has been teaching you, Alban,” said Miss De Groot, 
with awakened interest. « 

“ Indeed, I think so. I am sure there was never any one more 
unworthy of the gift of faith.” 

“ Do you mean,” said Mary, dropping her pencil and leaning 
forward, — •“ do you mean that you will be a Catholic ?” 

There was something in his face which answered her before 
he said with his lips — “ By God’s grace.” 

She uttered a faint cry of joy, sprang up hastily, and throwing 
her arms round his neck, kissed him on both cheeks. She, sank 
back immediately upon her low seat, and buried her face in her 
lap. Alban turned paler than when he read Miriam’s letter. 


ALBAN. 


351 


He could not say a word, while she sobbed in her apron like a 
child. She lifted her face at last, glowing red, and dried her eyes, 
without loooking at him. 

“The Blessed Virgin has heard my prayers I knew she 
would, but I did not expect so soon. Tell me how it happened. 
How did God give you faith ?” 

“ It was this morning at the mass in which you received com- 
munion, that I was first able to say with all my heart — I believe." 

“ I offered my communion for your conversion,” said Mary, in 
a quiet, natural tone. 

“Did you?” replied he, quite in the same, as if not at all 
surprised. “ I went to a Presbyterian prayer-meeting last night 
and took part in the exercises,” laughing. “ But as soon as I got 
into the chapel this morning, (I came there full of any thing else,) 
and knelt down, pretty much, I think, with the intention of acting 
like others, but feeling tolerably sure, too, that there was at least 
nothing wrong in it, an indescribable certainty stole over me that 
this was tlje true, divine religion. I envied the poor people going 
to confession ; the Presence in the Tabernacle penetrated me with 
awe, and the image of our Lady with the Child, above it, carried 
me back to Bethlehem. I saw as clearly as could be that let the 
world think as it might. He was here the same as there, in a form 
of weakness, but still the Almighty Saviour of Israel. I had con- 
cluded thus before from mere reasoning, you understand, nay, I 
had said it, hut now I saw it. 1 heard the first mass in that state 
of mind. And yet — do you know, all the while I was uncertain 
what I should do in consequence, or how long I should retain this 
clear conviction. I felt as if I just saw into the other world, but 
what would happen when the vision vanished was beyond me. 
There was an obstacle — something to be given up — a great deal 
to be given up ; more particularly the power of deciding upon my 
own conduct in a certain case where my feelings, my interests, my 
honor as a gentleman, and every thing I held dear in this world, 
were concentred. I felt as powerless, Mary, to surrender my 
own settled plan on this point, as to lift the cathedral from its 


352 


ALBAN. 


base. I knew that I should go on with it as I had determined 
and as I wdshed, even if Hell-fire were before me as the inevitable 
end of the path I had chosen. Even now my feelings are as 
strong as ever, but my resolve is changed. And this happened in 
the second mass. The priest read so distinctly that I could follow 
a great deal of it, and the gospel, rapidly as he articulated, sank 
like molten lead into my heart — ‘ If any man will come after me, 
let him take up his cross and follow me. For he who will save 
his life shall lose it, but he who shall lose his life for my sake 
shall save it. For what doth it profit a man, if he shall gain the 
whole world, but suffer the loss of his own soul ? or what shall a 
man give in exchange for his soul ? For the Son of Man shall 
come in the glory of his Father, with his angels, and then will he 
render to every man according to his works.’ ” 

“ I remember thinking of you as I followed it in my missal,’said 
!Mary, with evident awe. 

“The rest of that mass passed in a struggle with myself. I 
knelt down again after the gospel with the. rest, I joined in the 
worship of the people as far as I understood it, I adored at the 
elevation, but with the dreadful feeling that when I looked at last 
without a veil upon His face who was then lifted up, it might be 
a face of wrath for me. After the elevation, I began to pray earn- 
estly, until the persjjiration, notwithstanding the coldness of the 
chapel, ran down my body in streams. I appealed to Mary, the 
Ga*e of Heaven and Refuge of sinners, as she is called in that beau- 
tiful litany you showed me the other day. Then you all went up 
to communion, (although I had no idea of your being there,) and 
the thing flashed upon me again. For the love of a woman — a 
mere creature and of a fallen race, a fair corruption, whose body 
would soon be dust, and her soul, without faith, go down to eter- 
nal night — would I forego the sweetness of the Creator !” — Mary 
clasped her hands. — “ For one draught from the filthy puddle of 
sensual pleasure — for it was that after all which attracted me 
— would I lose the beatific vision, and never know what it was to 
possess and enjoy God ! ‘ 0 my Author and my End,’ I exclaimed. 


ALBAN , 


353 


‘ take from me every thing ^vhich thou hast made, but give me 
Thyself’ ” 

Mary had listened with mixed feelings to this burst. After 
some little delay, several things being said which were of lit- 
tle importance, she inquired what it was that brought him to 
mass. 

“ This very affair in regard to which I still wish to ask your 
sisterly advice.” 

He drew from his pocket a letter which the reader will not be 
slow to identify, observing that it would put her in possession of 
the facts. He thought that under the circumstances, he was jus- 
tified in showing it to her. 

Mary received Miriam’s letter with a grave, curious face, 
glancing first at the feminine superscription of the envelope. She 
turned towards the fire to read it, spreading it open in her lap. 
Before she began, however, covering it with both her hands, she 
looked up to Alban and said — “ Is it from Miss Clinton ? — Oh, it is 
not !” — with a relieved air — “ I asked because if it had been, I 
should have been unwilling — but no matter.” 

Thus saying, she began to read. Blank astonishment was 
first depicted on her countenance. As she went on, leaning on 
the elbow, she shaded her face with one hand, and the other 
stole softly to her heart. She perused the letter evidently more 
than once, seeming, by the motion of the eye, to dwell on particu- 
lar expressions. She remained a good while after as in thought, 
with her eyes closed ; but when she addressed Alban, it was with 
a countenance quite free from emotion. She laid her finger on a 
passage of the letter. 

” I understand from this that you have proposed to Miss 
Seixas ?” 

“ Precisely,” said Alban. 

“ She is contracted to another person — is she ?” 

“ A cousin — a Jew,” replied Alban, dropping on one knee by 
Miss De Groot’s side, and looking over the letter still spread in 
her lap. 


30 * 


354 


ALBAN. 


“ There is another ottoman, Alban.” 

He drew it near her and sat down. 

“ I don’t see what you can do in such a case,” said Mary. 

“ She is going somewhere with her brother, to be married to this 
cousin of her own faith — isn’t she ? And that w'ill be the end 
of it.” 

“ Unless I can contrive to see her before she goes, and induce 
her to change her mind again.” 

“ Is that what you propose ?” asked Miss De G-root, with 
some quickness, and giving him back the letter. 

“ I will presently tell you. You must know that I have ascer- 
tained that Miss Seixas is going to Smyrna. They sail in a 
Spanish bark, the Manuel, with as ugly a looking crew and des- 
perado-looking captain as you would wish to see. Now it is easy 
to foresee that when they reach Smyrna, which is a voyage of not 
less than seven or eight weeks, and may be longer, and Miriam 
finds herself among her own people, she will marry Joseph Seixas. 

I cannot abandon her thus without a struggle,” said Alban, with a 
resolute air. “If I cannot obtain an interview with her before 
her departure, in which I may fairly try the experiment of com- 
bating a resolution, which, you must have observed by her letter, 
springs in part from womanly pride and a sense of justice to me — 
I say, unless I can obtain such an interview — I am resolved to 
make this voyage with them. To let a woman from whom I have 
obtained a confession of love go away to misery here and here- 
after, without an effort — a strenuous effort — to save her, comports 
neither with my principles nor with my feelings. What think 
you ?” 

Mary kept her eyes on the carpet, except when she gave Alban 
now and then a glance of surprise. 

“ How old are you, Alban ?” 

“ Just twenty,” replied the youth. 

“ You have tried to see Miss Seixas to-day?” 

“ I went to the house and was refused admittance. Miriam 
sent down word by her maid that she was particularly engaged 


ALBAN . 


355 

and could not see me. After that I found Seixas at the synagogue. 
He was mild as possible, but inexorable. He said that Miriam 
was free, and had a right to refuse me an interview. On his part 
he considered it her duty, and therefore he could not be expected 
to interfere, even for my sake. He was deaf, in short, to my en- 
treaties, and only smiled at my threats ; for I got very angry at 
his immovable obstinacy in sacrificing his sister’s soul and hap- 
piness.” 

” Why don’t you go to a priest,” said Mary, “ and impart every 
thing to him under the seal of confession ? He will tell you exactly 
what to do.” 

Alban shook his head. She gently took the letter from him 
again. 

“ I should be sorry to seem unwilling to act the part of a sister 
and friend, when you appeal to me in that character. But how 
can I advise, not knowing all the circumstances ? In your note to 
me you accused yourself of some mysterious sin. It had nothing 
to do with Miss Seixas ?” — “ No, no ; she is innocent as nature 
can be.” — “ I thought so. Well, I will tell you what I think : 
that Mr. Seixas, considering he is a Jew, is very kind and wise — 
more so than most Christians w'ould be in like circumstances, 
Alban ; and that Miss Seixas’s conduct is noble and dignified — 
like a true-hearted woman,” — with gentle warmth. “ But her 
passions must be naturally violent. True, she is not to blame for 
that. Still, dear Alban, the less any of us have to do with poniards, 
the better. She has permitted herself to love you, although she 
w'as already betrothed. That is what I least like. It must have 
been voluntary in part ; all love is. I must say that my notions 
of fidelity between plighted, or conscious, lovers, do not allow any 
deliberate thought of that kind about another person.” 

She spoke in a rapid, unpremeditated, earnest sort of way, as 
a girl naturally talks. Alban shaded his eyes and seemed lost in 
thought. 

“ I need not a priest’s counsel in this matter,” he said at length. 
“ No priest can tell me what \ want to know.” 


356 


ALBAN. 


Mary bent over the letter as if it could tell her what Mr. Alban 
wanted to know. She murmured rather shyly, that it was strange 
he should want to know any thing but what he must know better 
than any one — the state of his own affections. It seemed to her a 
very wild idea though — that of his going with the Seixases to the 
East against their will — leaving his college — he such a youth. 
Where would he get the funds for such a voyage ? 

He explained to her that he had some money left him by an 
aunt, and that even as a minor he could easily obtain an advance 
on it 1‘rom the Jews. An old Israehte had promised him a sum 
which he deemed sufficient. 

“You will be betrayed by these people, Alban. It makes me 
shudder to think of that dreadful Spanish captain and his crew. 
How do you know that they are not pirates ? or slavers, which is 
just as bad ?” She began to cry. 

Alban was provided with an answer also to this. It was true 
that piracy was then not unknown in the American seas, and he 
conjectured that this Spanish shipmaster had been at least in the 
African trade ; but he was a devout Catholic. In his cabin hung 
a picture of the -Holy Virgin, with a lamp perpetually burning. 
In short, it was by appealing to his religious feelings that Alban 
had obtained from him the information in regard to the move- 
ments of the Seixases. The skipper and he had made a condi- 
tional bargain. 

“ If I can obtain her previous consent, I am to be on board 
when they come to the vessel in the morning. The skipper will 
then haul up the ladies first — that is, Miriam and her maid. As 
soon as they are on deck, instead of lowering the ladder down the 
side for Manuel Seixas, the boat in which they come is to be 
dropped loose, and we shall make our way out to sea with what 
promises to be a most favorable wind. Now the question is, 
shall I, in the interview which I have the means of securing, sim- 
ply ask her consent to this plan of a mutual flight, saying nothing 
of a change of faith, or shall 1 make the latter a prerequisite ? 
Without vanity, I think that could I see Miriam, I should infalli- 


ALBAN. 


357 


bly succeed on the former plan, and should almost certainly fail by 
taking the latter alternative.” 

“ I dare say,” said Mary, changing from pale to red by 
turns. 

“ When Miriam is under my protection — after having broken 
thus irrevocably with her own people and family — she will be 
readily won, I doubt not, by my arguments and entreaties, to 
embrace the Christian faith.” 

“ Alban,” interrupted Miss De Groot, “ say no more on that 
point. I am sure, that not even to save Miss Seixas’s soul, ought 
you to persuade her to elope with you as a Jewess. It would be 
a sin on your part, and shame to her. You cannot go to her 
except to persuade her t» be a Christian.” 

“ So I think,” said Alban, “ but shall I use the means which 
I possess of obtaining an interview for that purpose before to- 
morrow’s light ? For it must be by night — nor sooner than mid- 
night — and by means of a step which, for any other end, would 
be unjustifiable. Still, that is not the point. Would you have 
me make the attempt under the properest circumstances ?” 

The dinner-bell rang. A glance at the mantel-clock showed 
the hour of six. 

“ You must stay and dine with us, it wall give me time to 
think.” 

With the natural manners of American life, the young lady 
herself conducted Alban to an apartment where he could freshen 
his morning toilet, as well as circumstances allowed. A servant 
came in to help him, and preceded him down stairs ; and just as 
he arrived at the door of the dining-room, a step, like a bird on 
the wing, came down the last flight. She was in her wonted 
evening array, without a trace of haste or negligence. Mr. De 
Groot was ever enlivened by Alban’s presence. He ordered a 
bottle of champagne to be put in the cooler. Our young hero, 
who begins to be more heroic than heretofore, was not sorry, like 
his predecessors since Homer, to renovate his energies by a stimu- 
lating repast, after a day of labor and excitement. 


358 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Dinner lasted about an hour, Mr. De Groot indulging in an extra 
glass of wine, and displaying a cheerful courtesy. Mrs. De Groot 
inquires respecting “ the state of feeling” in Dr. M.’s congregation, 
having understood th'at the last night’s prayer-meeting was one of 
“ special interest.” Alban is self-possessed, occasionally gives in 
to a concealed humor in answering the questions of ISIadame. 
Mademoiselle regards him with wonder, sometimes smiles in spite 
of herself, and sends away her plate almost untouched. 

The half-hour after the ladies have withdrawn (Mr. De Groot 
adheres to that old custom) passes slowly, although the host 
wakes into animation, and wondering at Alban’s apparent disgust 
for champagne, regrets again and again that the vacation is so 
nearly at an end. Then comes tea in the drawing-room, and the 
card-table set with candles and counters, and two Iresh packs. 
The patroon claims his rubber on account of Alban’s being there. 

” After which, Mary (I see her impatience) may take you into 
any snug corner she likes. I declare, Atherton, I believe I shall 
miss you as much as she will.” 

Mi.ss Do Groot, having employed the interval between dinner 
and tea to visit her own room, had regained her serenity : still she 
revoked in the first hand and thereby lost the game ; whereat her 
father, being her partner, was irritated, and talked of people 
being so much in love that they could not mind their cards. 
Mademoiselle blushed a little, and became more attentive ; they 
won the rubber, which restored the patroon’s good humor. 

“ Now take Mr. Alban where you please, child. The library 
has a fire, and is a famous place for tete-a-tctes^ Please to con- 
sider, Atherton, that I give in to this New England custom, on 
the ground of your being too thorough-bred a Knickerbocker tg 
abuse the concession.” 


ALBAN. 


359 


The young lady flitted before him. The library was darkish 
and light by fits, as the flickering fire of Liverpool 'coal allowed, 
and Mary, after a glance at the sentimental locale, passed oif to 
the lobby, which she had once pointed out to Alban as fit for the 
interviews of lovers. It was worse than the library, but she 
stopped there, going to the oriel as the lightest spot ; for the only 
illumination came from a street lamp, through the stained glass, 
shedding a mystic, patchwork beam upon the dark wainscoting. 
It sufficed to render visible on the young lady’s face the reserved 
expression natural to one of her sex who remembered that her 
companion had so recently enjoyed similar interviews with others ; 
and presently she put her handkerchief to her eyes and wept — a 
still, silent shower of tears that soon wet through the cambric. 

“ How can I give my sisterly advice,” she suddenly exclaimed, 
with a sort of gentle passion, “ when I am a party interested. 
Really, Alban, your coming to me about this, is the most indeli- 
cate thing I ever heard of.” 

“ Mary !” 

“ If you run away with Miss Seixas, every body will say that 
you have jilted me. Papa will be very angry. Now let me 
finish ; don’t speak, Alban, till I have said all I have got to say. 
I have never formed any false notions myself in regard to your 
friendship. I knew all along that you considered me as a little 
girl. Because you are such a scholar, and take the lead, in col- 
lege, of men grown, you seem to yourself very mature : whereas, 
in society, you are only a youth, a boy under age, a college stu- 
dent, which is nothing at all ; — a girl like Henrietta Clinton 
thinks she can twist you round her little finger ; and nobody 
else would have taken any notice of you, unless they had sup- 
posed, from your appearing with us, that I had been so silly as to 
engage myself, before I am seventeen, to an under-graduate. 
Now I am a young lady in society — girl as I am — and if I were to 
be married in six months, people might say it was a pity, but no 
one would think it strange. ’Twas but yesterday that the Count 
called on papa, with Mr. Seixas to back his representations of his 


3G0 


ALBAN. 


family and fortune, and made proposals for me in the foreign way ; 
and papa told him he did not wish me to marry out of my own 
country, and besides, that my affections, he believed, were already 
engaged. You see, Mr. Alban, how the case stands. Papa took 
a fancy to you from the first. I saw by the way he acted and 
talked, that Sunday evening at Mr. Everett’s, and by his choosing 
to go down with you to New York, instead of staying a few days, 
and then turning me over to you on the steamboat, that his mind 
was made up to have you for a son. I am sure you have every 
reason to be flattered by his partiality. I observe, indeed, that 
other people who have experience, like you ; and, for myself, it 
seems to me quite natural they should ; but I never dreamed of 
your doing such a thing as to fall seriously in love with a Jew- 
ess, who is espoused to another person, and audaciously wdnning 
her affection, (she must be very susceptible,) and proposing to 
elope with her, and that at the moment when you profess to have 
been converted to the Catholic faith. Least of all would I 
dream that you would come to ask my advice on the subject. All 
this is strange to me, Alban, and places yuu in a perfectly new 
light. It makes me almost wish I had never known you, and 
quite that I had never given you so many marks of an affection, 
which, I take Heaven to witness, a sister, so far as I know, might 
have felt without blame.” 

“ It appears,” said Alban, when she had finished, “ that what 
I thought is true. You have a claim upon my delicacy, which I 
should disregard by pursuing this affair. I might have seen it 
without trying your feelings thus, if I had not been blinded by 
the remains of passion and the obstinacy of my will. To recede, 
after taking a step, is so painful to me. Yes, I might have saved 
this if I had gone to a priest at once.” 

She spoke of his parents. Any clergyman would tell him 
that it was sinful, in such matters, to act without their advice 
and consent. Then the rashness ! It made her wonder to hear 
him speak of a voyage in the company of that beautiful Jewess — 
so ardent and impulsive. 


ALBAN . 


3G1 


“ Yet see her, Alban, if you can obtain an interview without 
violating decorum, and try to persuade her to become a Christian. 
If she consents, bring her here. I will receive her as a sister, 
and I answer for my father’s not objecting. She can stay with 
me until you have graduated and are of age, and then you can be 
honorably married. I would be bridesmaid and all that” — speak- 
ing quick — “ and happy as Miss Seixas herself.” 

“ But if I camiot see her without violating decorum — without 
scaling her window at night, for instance,” said Alban, blushing 
in the dark. “ As a young inexperienced brother, I ask the ques- 
tion of a sister the instincts of whose sex are wisdom.” 

“ Don’t dream of such a thing,” said Mary, with a candid 
glance and an extremely gentle accent. “ Dear Alban, we have 
no means of securing our virtue except by never putting it volun- 
tarily in peril. When you have been a Catholic a very little while, 
you will not ask such questions.” 

“ And what return shall I make for your kindness ?” said 
Alban. The whole scene inspired him with a sudden impulse. 
Something ho felt was due to this blameless friend, whose pride, 
if not her affection, he had wounded, yet who showed no resent- 
ment. He sank on one knee and took her hand. She tried to 
withdraw it, but did not till he had kissed it. “ I have been far 
from a true knight, Mary, but you are the truest of ladies ever 
heard of — the tenderest and most forgiving mistress that ever was. 
The only return I can make is to ask you to love and pray for 
me as heretofore, and one of these days, perhaps, I may be more 
worthy of you.” 

She bade him good night in a less composed voice, and moved 
shyly towards the door of the private stair. She paused with her 
hand on the lock. 

“ Be faithful to your religion, Mr. Alban. No human respects 
will now be mixed with it. Do not defer seeing a priest, and pray 
for me when you have been received into the Church.” 

She opened the door quietly and stole up the stair. He listened 
till the sound of her steps was lost in the corridor of the story above, 

81 


BOOK V. 


5lllinii Confronts tjir ^5oinrr3 of Dnrknrss. 


CHAPTER I. 

We must take the reader once more to New Haven, and ir,tro- 
duce him or her to the interior of a room in North College, fire- 
glowing, red-curtained, book-shelved, study-tabled. The student 
sat in a rocking-chair by the fire, with his feet on the Franklin, his 
trowsers strapless, his waistcoat unbuttoned, neckcloth laid aside, 
his dilapidated frock-coat showing the shirt-sleeves at the elbows 
and at wide gaps beneath the arms, the buttons off, and the button- 
holes torn through, and the silk lining completely in tatters. But 
for two or three other points, the young man would have seemed 
as great a sloven as could be found in an American college. His 
morocco slippers were whole and not turned down at the heel ; the 
■w’hile cotton stockings protruding from the strapless trowsers were 
spotless as a young lady’s, and the linen so liberally displayed by 
his open waistcoat and gaj)ing elbows would have dressed an 
Englishman for a dinner party. But the careless brown locks 
clustering and curling over the ears would not have satisfied 
English precision, notwithstanding the clearness of the brow and 
cheek they shaded, and of the hand half-buried in them, as the 
student leaned on his elbow. Being the study-hour, he had in 
hand a volume of Plato’s Republic, while a great folio lexicon 
lay open on the floor by his side, so that he could reach it by 


ALBAN. 


363 ^ 


stooping a little, as he half sat, half lounged, in the low chintz- 
cushioned rocking-chair, which no American collegian is willingly 
without. 

There was a short authoritative rap at the study door, and a 
gentleman entered, without waiting for an answer to the warning. 
The intruder was a man of about thirty, pale but in good flesh, 
scrupulously attired in black, with a neat white neckcloth. The 
student sprang up and remained standing. The tutor’s duty is to 
make such calls, and generally it is absolved by opening the 
door, exchanging a bow with the occupants of the room, and 
retiring. But this gentleman came decidedly in, and the young 
man offered him a chair. 

“ Where is your cousin 

“ Henry is out somewhere, sir. I have not seen him since 
breakfast.” 

. “ I am glad to find you alone. I want to have some conver- 

sation with you, Atherton.” 

Alban had already laid his Plato carelessly on its face upon the 
lexicon. The Professor took it up. 

“ You have made beautiful recitations in the Republic I hear, 
Atherton. It is agreed, I understand, that you are to have the 
last ‘ oration.’ It is really a higher honor than the valedictory, 
and all the initiated people present at commencement understand 
it so. I expect to enjoy your oration, as I enjoy every thing you 
write.” 

“ You have always been too partial to me, sir.” 

“ You told me last term that you had some difficulties about 
the evidences of religion. I suppose you have settled that point 
with yourself, eh ?” 

“ I think so, sir.” 

“ And you are convinced of the truth of revelation, I hope ?” 

“ duite convinced, sir. I am sorry and ashamed to have ever 
doubted.” 

“ I am rejoiced to hear you say so,” said Professor B , 

with emphasis. “ In fact, from some things you have let fall in 


364 


ALBAN . 


your answers, or some questions you have asked, at the Natural 

Theology Lecture, Dr. got the impression that you were — as 

he expressed it — a concealed infidel. I told him you were the 
last man in the world to be a ‘concealed’ any thing. I have 
always found you frank to a fault. But you did not partake of 
the sacrament last Sunday, they say, although you were present. 
Some of our quidnuncs, in fact, are a little excited about you, 
Atherton. Just give me a word to quiet them. I suppose you 
are fancying that you are not worthy, or something of that sort.” 

“ I went to chapel with the intention of receiving,” said 
Alban, “but — I did not dare.” 

“ I thought so. Oh, well, you must get over that. It is dis- 
creditable to your clear judgment. We are all unworthy, in one 
sense.” 

“ It was not my own unworthiness — great as it is — which 
deterred me,” said Alban, uneasily. 

“ What then ?” 

“ Really, sir, I would rather be excused from answering. It 
is a matter which I have confined strictly to my own breast.” 

“ That is not wise, my dear Atherton. Really, I did not sup- 
pose that there w'as this weak spot in your manly organization. 
I never should have suspected you of brooding over these morbid 
scruples.” ^ 

“ I feel no such scruples as you suppose, sir,” said Alban. “ I 
doubt whether the Lord’s Supper, as administered among us, is 
the sacrament at all.” 

“ Oh !” said the Professor, “ you have been too much with 
that weak fellow. Soapstone. You are going to turn Episcopalian, 
eh, Atherton ?” 

This was said in a tone of undisguised contempt. 

“ I am not going to turn 'Episcopalian, I assure you, sir,” said 
Alban, much annoyed. 

“ Oh, yes, you are. If you have got doubts into your head 
about ordination, and apostolic succession, and all that sort of 
thing, you will become an Episcopalian sooner or later. I never 


ALBAN. 


365 


knew a case that turned out otherwise. It indicates a weak spot, 
as I told you ; and weak spots always betray themselves.” 

“ Harry is going to join the Episcopalian Church,” said Alban, 
“ and yet I have done every thing in my power to dissuade him 
from it. But Miss Ellsworth’s bright eyes, and the charm of the 
beautiful Liturgy, are more than a match for my arguments. I 
have actually lost all my influence over Henry by the ground I 
have taken in reference to the subject.” 

“ You hope to introduce Episcopacy and Liturgies among our- 
selves ? I have heard of such an idea. It is the first thought 
of a youth who begins to see, as he says, ‘ the importance of these 
things.’ ^ell, try it, Alban. But take my word for it, you will 
only do yourself harm. You will pass for a silly visionary. 
Every body wiU’laugh at you. Our own people, of course, will ; 
for they don’t want to be turned into Episcopalians ; if they did, 
they would take the shorter way of joining the Episcopal Church. 
And Epi.scopalians will only say that you are grossly inconsistent, 
and that you ought to come into ‘ the Church’ at once.” 

“ They would be quite right,” said Alban. “ It would be the 
height of absurdity to go about to reconstruct the Church on a 
supposed divine model, when, if the Church be a divine thing at 
all, it must exist in the world ready made to our hands. If I 
were satisfied with the Episcopal Church, I would join it ; but 
I am not. The Church, it seems to me, is, at least, the faith that 
believes Christ and the love which embraces Him, made visi- 
ble. The Episcopal Church neither believes nor loves as I do. 
Its articles outrage my faith, and its Liturgy disappoints my 
heart.” 

“ Well, and heartily said ! I declare, Atherton, you have no 
idea how you relieve my mind. To see your fine understanding 
beclouded by this fog of Episcopacy, — a mere unmeaning, super- 
stitious formalism — would have been too pitiable. But what do 
you mean then about the Sacrament ? I hope you are not getting 
into the mystical line, and renouncing outward forms altogether. 
This has ensnared some choice intellects, refining too much for 

31 * 


366 


ALBAN. 


humanity. We need memorials. It is not philosophical, Atherton, 
to overlook the immense influence that the Lord’s Supper has 
exercised over the feelings of Christians in all ages. It has revivified 
their love for the Redeemer almost more than every thing else. 
Don’t you feel, now, that this is true ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

The Professor was nonplussed. He thought he had explored 
the whole ground. What point was left ? He hegan to feel pro- 
voked with Atherton. 

“ Pray, let me know Avhat is your difficulty,” he said with 
irritation. “ My whole wish is to serve you, and it is hardly 
treating me well to let me go on beating about the bush in the 
dark.” 

“ I have been in some confusion as to my duties, sir, from my 
being actually a member of the College Church. Obedience to 
my father, and love for my mother keep me from openly avowing 
a change which has taken place in my faith. 1 had persuaded 
myself that I might innocently join a company of Christians with 
whom I was providentially associated, in partaking of bread and 
wine in memory of Christ’s death. But when it came to the point, 
I shrank from doing it, for whatever it is to them, to me it could be 
nothing but a sacrilegious substitution for the adorable sacrament of 
love in which I believe.” 

The Professor stared as if he thought him deranged. 

“ At one time, not long ago,” continued Alban, with some ex- 
citement of manner, “ I was forced by the manifest contradiction 
between our New England religion and the Bible to retreat upon 
the Hebrew position. I found there an ancient revelation and a 
living witness in perfect harmony.” 

The Professor gave him a look of piercing scrutiny, but was 
silent. 

“ It M^as deeply painful to me to have these ideas. Christ was 
dear to me : — yes. He was dear to me through it all. I could 
never bear to hear Him spoken of with irreverence. Somehow, I 
had an idea that He was the real Messiah, but that neither His 


ALBAN. 


367 


own nation, nor His actual followers had understood him. I grew 
more and more bewildered. I began to look for Him to reappear. 
I was desirous of going to Palestine, in the hope, mixed with 
many a carnal aspiration, of seeing Him. My heart eried out for 
Christ.” 

Alban shed some quiet tears. The Professor now regarded him 
with a mixture of fear and pity. 

“ We will talk over these things another time, my dear Ather- 
ton. You are excited at present.” 

“ No, no,” exclaimed Alban. “ Now I have begun, let me 
finish. I can do it in a word. I have found Christ where alone 
He really is on this earth. I have not as yet found Him, indeed, 
as I hope to find Him, but I know where to seek Him ; and he 
who knows where to seek has already found. It is not in Syria, 
sir, but it is in Jerusalem, in a city set on a hill, of which all men 
know at least so much as* this, that He is said to be there. In 
faith, sir,” continued Alban, recovering his usual quiet manner of 
a sudden, — “ in faith, I am now, what you, perhaps, will consider 
worse and more foolish than an Episcopalian : — namely, a Roman 
Catholic.” 

“ Poor Atherton ! I do believe his head is turned,” thought the 
Professor. “ Next he will say that he is a Mahometan. Or if 
not crazy, he is dangerous. His influence is unbounded over cer- 
tain minds. There are a dozen fellows in the senior class alone, 
who would follow him anywhere he chose to lead. This must 
be looked to in time. A Roman Catholic ! oh, he is clearly not 
sane. I must talk this over with you another day, Atherton,” he 
added aloud. “ At present, I see, you are busy with Plato. Good 
morning. And Atherton, — I hope you will keep this matter 
to yourself That’s right. Hem !” concluded the P^pfessor, as 
the door closed upon him. “ I must communicate this forthwith 
to the President.” ; 


368 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER II. 

According to the interpretation of many Catholic expositors of 
the mystical Book of Revelations, it is a little more than three 
hundred years ago since the star fell from heaven upon the earth, 
to whom was given the key of the bottomless pit. This is agree- 
able to the rules of symbolic interpretation recently laid down by 
Mr. Lord, and now, we believe, generally received by his Protest- 
ant brethren, viz., that a star signifies a Christian teacher, and a 
star falling from heaven the apostasy of such a teacher. That 
the star fell upon the earth intimates (agreeably to the same sys- 
tem) that this teacher fell from the divine to the human sphere 
in his doctrine ; and the key of the bottomless pit being given him, 
that he opened an abyss to which there is really no bottom, by 
appealing to human reason as the interpreter of the divine word ; 
from which arose a smoke which darkened the sun and the air, 
(the infinite heresies, and gross, light-obscuring prejudices of Prot- 
estantism,) and from the smoke came out locusts upon the earth, 
or the militaiy and civil powers by which Protestantism was prop- 
agated, the Church plundered, and the people persecuted to 
make them fall from the faith. These hateful and violent powers, 
however, could not hurt the truly faithful, but only those whom 
mortal sin, whether sensual vice or intellectual pride, or covetous- 
ness, rendered deserving of it, that is, the men who had not the 
sign of God in their foreheads, who readily fell away and perished. 
They were as horses prepared to battle, to show the rapidity of 
their conquests ; they had crowns of gold, to show that the move- 
ment against the Church was conducted by princes, like the sover- 
eigns of Saxony, Brandenburgh, and England ; their “ faces were 
as men,” to indicate their pretensions to human learning and better 
reason, criticism, philosophy, and so on, (llumanitarianism ;) and 
“ hair as the hair of women,” to indicate the elieminacy of their 


ALBAN . 


369 


doctrine, in rejecting celibacy, authorizing polygamy, dissolving 
the bonds of sacred marriage, rejecting the ascetic principle in 
Christianity, and denying the merit as vi-ell as the possibility of 
heroic virtue, (the apSTr) of the N. T.) Their teeth w’ere as lions, 
to show their destructiveness, evinced in the ruin of those splendid 
institutions and monuments wherewith centuries of piety had en- 
riched Europe. They had “ breastplates as breastplates of iron,” 
to indicate that they would be insensible to reason or pity, as in 
the cruel proscription of the Catholic religion and the bloody per- 
secution of its professors and ministers ; and “ the noise of their 
wings was as the noise of chariots and many horses running to 
battle,” to show their great conspicuity and importance and appa- 
rent triumph, their skill in filling literature with their doings, and 
their semblance of being the great movement of the age and of 
time. The double period of five months during which they were 
to torment and hurt, is supposed to intimate a duration of three 
hundred years, which now happily is come to an end ; the Church 
is already, we may say, emancipated everywhere from their 
power ; they may threaten, but can no longer injure ; their “ scor- 
pion-sting” is lost. However all this may be, and we don’t under- 
take, like Aunt Fanny, to determine positively the sense of so 
mysterious a prophecy, the application is extremely pat in every 
particular, even to the succession of sovereigns, (doubtless of vari- 
ous countries,) by whom these symbolic locusts were to be led. 

” They had a king over them,” that is, says Mr. Lord, “ many 
kings reigning successively,” the angel or representative of their 
principles ; if, indeed, this does not rather refer to the sect-leaders, 
to whom they always appeal, and whose destroying names flourish 
in regal pomp at the head of their armies. But we leave so subtle 
a point to those who can understand a proverb, and the interpre- 
tation thereof. 

We suppose that even at the date of our story the scorpion sting 
in the tail of Protestantism could no longer hurt. It was true the 
“ teeth as lions” were shown about that time by the burning down 
of a convent in Massachusetts, and of a church or two in Philadel- 


370 


ALBAN. 


phia, by an anti-popisli mob, but as neither of these proceedings 
made any converts to Protestantism, but rather the reverse, the 
sharpness of the bite was wanting. And our Alban, in a Puritan 
college, although there is an immense dust kicked up and an un- 
earthly clamor made, is in no danger of life or limb. He will 
neither be hung nor burned, nor even set in pillory, nor whipped 
at the cart-tail, of all which he might once have stood in danger, 
even in New England ; still less will he be emboweiled, as priests 
used to be in Old England for saying mass, or pressed to death, as 
women used to be in the same country for hearing it. Still he is 
a culprit, and must “ suffer some.” 

The thing was whispered. It got about in the town before it 
did in the college, which shows that some who were in the secret 
had female friends. Then the case was mentioned in a social 
prayer-meeting in college, that the unfortunate young man in 
question might be unitedly prayed for ! A hundred young men, by 
the way, in a college lecture-room at five in the morning, some on 
their legs, some kneeling on the floor, some resting their heads on 
the back of the bench before them, so as to conceal their faces en- 
tirely, while one of their number, standing with closed eyes and 
extended arms, or clasped hands, is pouring forth an extempore 
prayer, — measured, deliberate, long, rather in the manner of rea- 
soning than supplication — is an impressive scene. There was a 
faint stirring of the w'aters for a revival in college at that time, as 
there generally is in the spring term, and prayer-meetings were 
held every morning, before chapel in the Rhetorical Chamber. 
Alban was prayed for without mentioning his name, but the ab- 
sence of q. “ professor” hitherto so shining, and always conspicuous 
from his talents, could not escape notice. It was easy to put this 
and that together ; the secret was soon nominal ; and one morn- 
ing, not long after prayers had been mysteriously requested in his 
behalf, a coarse but fervent youth — a Western man — ripped out 
the name in full in a long supplication, in which the speaker took 
occasion to enter into all the circumstances, lor the benefit of such 
as might yet be ignorant. 


ALBAN. 


371 


Alban’s friends fell off at once. Even Henry Atherton, as we 
have intimated, had grown cold. His class no longer cheered him ; 
the Brothers’ Society listened to him in unsympathizing silence. 
The new President was applauded in turning his palmary argu- 
ment in a debate, into ridicule, and the Society decided for the first 
time against the side he had supjwrted. Society, in any of its 
spheres, is never so unjust as when it turns against a former idol. 
He is still great by the memory of her favor, and therefore she 
feels no pity. O’Connor, who was a plucky fellow, and would 
have stood by Alban, had left Yale and gone to St. Joseph’s 
Seminary. The gentlemanly Charles Carroll was cold to the sup- 
posed convert. 

It was felt by Alban’s religious friends that it would not do to 
trust wholly to prayer. Charitable charity students, whom Alban 
had befriended or loved in the days of his fervent experimental 
religion, called to pay the debt by earnest warnings. Hardly a day 
passed without one such visit. Some came repeatedly. Old ladies 
in the town sent for him to touch his feelings by reminding him of 
his grandfather and mother, of his departed aunts and living 
uncles, and missionary cousins, and a host of good people of his 
all but sacred name and blood, who dead, would be ready to start 
up in their graves, or living, would almost break their hearts, to 
hear that he was fallen into such fearful errors. 

Our young friend answered the old ladies that his living friends 
might err, and that the present opinions of such as were dead might 
be very diflerent from what they supposed. 

His pious classmates, his friends in the Theological Seminary, 
and the Divinity Professors, opened upon him a terrible battery of 
arguments. Alban smiled when they told him that Popery was 
pointed out in the New Testament as the Man of Sin, by the clear 
marks of forbidding to marry and commanding to abstain from 
meats. It was as clear a case as Aunt Fanny’s notion that the 
“ Church at Philadelphia” meant the Q,uakers. Did that Church 
forbid to marry, he smilingly demanded, which declared matri- 
mony to be a Sacrament ? which interrupted its august sacrifice 


372 


ALBAN. 


for one purpose alone — to bless the new-married pair, and invoke 
for them fruitfulness in the bed and peace at the board, chaste 
constancy hi love and length of mutual days ? It was not forbid- 
ding or dishonoring marriage, he argued, to say that celibacy was 
more excellent ; for St. Paul himself expressly said it, affirming 
that it was “ beautiful to remain a virgin." These were Chris- 
tian ideas, he assured them, not Popish. 

“ But the Papal Church forbids jyrie&t^ to marry — a clear proof 
that matrimony is considered impure,” said one obstinate reasoner. 
It was a theological student who was engaged to be married to a 
daughter of one of the Divinity Professors. He was ever harping 
on this string. He came every day to see Alban about it, and 
Alban at first declined to meet the objection. At length our hero’s 
patience and modesty were alike exhausted. 

“ Do you pretend to talk to me in this way,” he cried, with a 
deep flush on his own virginal cheek, “ when I have the Bible in 
my hands ! Do I not know that God Himself enjoined a sacred 
abstinence, not on a few priests only, but on the whole nation of 
the Jews, for three days before he descended on Sinai ? Do I not 
know that God laid a perpetual obligation of this sort ujjon all 
priests during the time of their service ? Did God Himself in this 
signify that union to be impure wffiich He had hallowed in Para- 
dise ? Yes, or no ?” 

» No.” 

“ Then neither does the Church insinuate that marriage is 
other than a holy estate, although she requires a better choice of 
those who are to serve continually at her altars, daily handling 
mysteries of which those of the Old Law were but the shadows. 
It is painful to me to talk of these things,” added Alban, “ I am 
shocked at your notions of Christian sanctity, and of the power of 
grace.” 

It was pretty much in this style that the aggressive Protestant- 
ism of the College was met by him. One candid classmate said 
that Atherton had a “ fatal familiarity with the Bible,” and that 
Scripture, as he handled it, was a two-edged sword. 


ALBAN. 


373 


Mr. Soapstone, too, who did not confide so much in the Bible, 
interpreted, as he said, by private judgment, but who was strong 
in Patristics, could not suflfer his interesting young friend to fall a 
prey to Romanism w'ithout stretching out an arm to save him. 
When Alban however heard that the Church of Rome had com- 
mitted schism in separating from the Church of England, he 
laughed outright. 

“As if the button should say to the coat — ‘ Why did you fall 
off!’ ” 

In reply to this irreverent squib, Mr. Soapstone developed his 
great idea of local Catholicity. 

“ Our Catholic and Apostolic bishops,” said he, “ having re- 
ceived consecration in Scotland and England, came to the United 
States and set up their jurisdiction here, several years before the 
See of Baltimore was created by the Pope, and the Romish Bishop 
Carroll consecrated for it. Consequently the erection of that see, 
and the exercise of Episcopal authority by the said Carroll and his 
successors, were acts of intrusion into our jurisdiction, and schis- 
matical. The Romish communion in the United States is there- 
fore in a state of schism, consequently it is no part of the Church 
of Christ ; and the encouragement of this schismatical commu- 
nion by the Church in France and Italy, is culpable in the ex- 
treme.” 

“ Your Catholic and Apostolic bishops, as you term them,” 
replied Alban, rather tartly, “ were themselves heretics and schis- 
matics when they came here, like the Church of England from 
which they derived both their doctrine and their orders.” 

“ Prove it,” retorted Mr. Soapstone, triumphantly. “ Prove 
that the Church of England was guilty of heresy or schism at 
the Reformation, or since. For if you cannot prove this, then she 
must be allowed to be a branch of the Catholic and Apostolic 
Church, and the consequence as to the exclusive jurisdiction of 
the daughter Church established in these United States follows of 
course.” 

“ I see the point you make,” said Alban, thoughtfully. 

82 


374 


ALBAN. 


“ I never knew it fairly met by a Romanist,” cried Mr. Soap- 
stone. 

“ One does not like to enter into single combat with a woman,” 
replied Alban. “ If you, whom I personally respect, bad not 
urged this argument, I could scarcely regard it as meriting a 
serious refutation.” 

“ Where is the fallacy ?” asked the young clergyman, a little 
trembling before the logical reputation of the quondam President 
of the Brothers. 

“ Grant you valid orders and an orthodox faith,” said Alban. ; 

“ then you say you came to these countries first with your bishops. 
You claim on the score of priority. But what you claim is terri- 
torial jurisdiction.” 

“ Certainly, exclusive territorial jurisdiction.” 

“ Good. Now jurisdiction is a thing that cannot exist where 
it is not claimed publicly, and in such a manner that all whom it 
may concern are bound to take notice of it. It must be claimed 
in the mode which custom authorizes. My neighbor has no right 
to complain of my trespassing upon his field if he neglects to in- 
close it, or to mark his right by some other customary sign of 
property. There is a regular way, as I understand it, of claiming 
the Episcopal jurisdiction of a territoiy, and that is by taking a 
territorial title. When a man calls himself ‘ Archbishop of Can- 
terbury and Primate of all England,’ we know what he means to 
claim for himself — a territorial spiritual jurisdiction over Canter- 
bury and all England, for such is the customary style of bishops 
with such jurisdiction. Pray, what was the style taken by your 
bishops M'hen they established themselves here ?” 

“ Bishops of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the States of 
New York, Pennsylvania, &c.,” returned Mr. Soapstone, reluc- 
tantly. 

“ That is not a claim of territorial jurisdiction,” said Alban, 
“ but distinctly the reverse. The adoption of a new mode of 
designating themselves, and taking a sectarian appellation, was a 
tacit repudiation of territorial claims, and, unless I am mistaken, 


ALBAN. 


375 


was so intended by your first bishops. But whether intended or 
not, the fact remains. In abandoning the system of local sees, 
you abandoned what was signified by it. What does your Church 
call itself? — ‘The Protestant Episcopal Church in the United 
States.’ Such a title claims nothing. Can you lay your finger 
on any other thing — any act, any document, any notification, of 
what nature soever, emanating from your Church, in which she 
claims exclusive territorial jurisdiction ? If not, how can a 
Catholic bishop be guilty of schism, by coming into a country 
where such a Church exists, and establishing a new see ? What 
has the erection of the See of Baltimore, by the Pope, to do with 
the existence of the ‘ Protestant Episcopal Church in Maryland V 
The Pope could not dream that he was invading jurisdiction 
where none was asserted, and must be pardoned for overlooking 
what you yourselves ignore.” 

“ I have always regretted the sectarian title assumed by our 
Church,” said Mr. Soapstone, rather pale and worried, “ as well 
as our not establishing sees like other churches, but I never 
thought of its vitiating our jurisdiction.” 

“ It does more than that, on your principles,” replied Alban, 
following up his advantage. “ For, observe, while you have 
neglected to occupy, the Roman Catholic Church (I take your 
own point of view) has extended its jurisdiction, in form, over the 
whole of the United States. It has established its sees, in the 
old recognized manner, so as to cover every square mile of the 
territory of the Republic. Consequently, by your own doctrine, 
she is in possession, and unless you can prove that she requires 
sinful terms of communion, you are in schism, cut off from the 
true Church, and from eternal salvation. You can’t mistake her 
claim — it is patent to all the world. Her style is unequivocal, 
royal, and supreme. Those who reject her jurisdiction, do so, 
therefore, at their own peril.” 

Mr. Soapstone sighed. 

“ If I may be candid,” concluded Alban, “ I will tell you 
what I think of these High Church claims, unsupported as they 


376 


ALBAN. 


are by facts, repudiated by the majority of your own members, 
and ridiculed by all the rest of the world. Without having the 
antiquity or the immense numbers, or any thing to be likened to 
the curious civilization of the Chinese, you remind me of their 
pig-tail arrogance, when they talk about the ‘ Celestial Empire,’ 
and term all other nations, though far more civilized than them- 
selves, ‘ outside barbarians.’ You High Church Episcopalians, 
prating about ‘ The Church,’ and ridiculmg ‘ Dissenters,’ are the 
Chinamen of the West ” 


ALBAN. 


377 


CHAPTER III. 

At the first blush every body had deserted our young friend. But 
by degrees his old admirers gathered round him, heard his reasons, 
and at least in part, espoused his cause. The standard of religious 
liberty was raised. Two parties were formed in college; — the 
Protestants, and “ Atherton’s friends.” The dispute ran so high 
that one-half the senior class would not speak to the other. Every 
man felt bound to take a side. Atherton — the quiet, philosophical, 
regular Atherton, the favorite of the tutors — was become a dis- 
turber of the peace of the University. 

Alban’s enemies — for the rancor of religious prejudice made 
them such — were not content to assail his principles and decry 
his talents ; they attacked his private character. They had, indeed, 
no handle for this except some incautious admissions of his own, 
dropped in pure frankness and humility, when defending the doc- 
trine of penitence. ’Twas said that Atherton had been guilty 
of card-playing, drinking to intoxication, and other immoralities, 
in New York ; that, in consequence, he had “ lost his religion,” 
and was given up to this delusion — “ to believe a lie.” Others 
said that he did not really believe in Popery any more than they 
did. But what excited a greater, because vague horror, was that, 
a Catholic priest coming into town for a few days, Atherton was 
seen in his company, and (it was even rumored) received a visit 
from him at his rooms. The popular idea of a Catholic priest, at 
that time, was of a fiend in human shape, who knew too much 
of his religion to believe it, but exercised a fearful tyraCfiny over 
the minds of some poor ignorant people for the sake of gain ; who 
abused the confidence of the confessional to corrupt innocent women, 
and committed the greatest crimes every day without compunc- 
tion. Regarding young Atherton as the voluntary associate of 
such a monster, even grave elderly folks turned away their heads, 

32 * 


378 ' 


ALBAN. 


or stared in wonder, as they passed him in the streets, and shy 
maidens hurried by him with downcast eyes and pale cheeks, 
instinctively gathering their garments closer to their shrinking 
forms. 

Alban would not have minded these things if he had not 
feared a more tangible infliction in the shape of a college censure. 
Perhaps it might be suspension, or the loss of his oration, or even 
of his degree. He heard that there was talk of sending him away, 
or making him lose a year, and the privilege of graduating with 
his class. Besides the mortification, this would have been a serious 
injury to him at the outset of life. Indeed, any academical censure 
at that period of his course must be a wound to the pride and 
feelings of his friends and family, and consequently a misfortune 
to him. Still he trusted that by circumspection in his conduct 
he should avoid it. He was more regular at chapel than almost 
any Senior, nor was there any change in that calm attention which 
he had always given to the chapter at prayers. During the long 
extempore prayer, he stood, as had always been his custom, with 
folded arms and eyes downcast. Some asserted that his lips 
were always moving, as if he were praying by himself, and that 
he carried for this purpose a string of beads under his cloak, but 
this was a mere calumny. Alban had adopted few of the devo- 
tional practices so much esteemed by Catholics, inasmuch as he 
knew not of them. His prayers were mostly mental. In chapel 
he used to meditate on the acts, and if his lips ever moved, it 
was unconsciously. This purely spiritual worship grew upon him 
the more because he was entirely cut off from the service of the 
Church. Father Smith’s place had not yet been supplied, and 
the priest who had left his own district to visit the flock at New 
Haven, •only said mass on a few week-days, at an hour when 
Atherton could not attend without being absent from chapel. 

Matters were in' this state when a grave complication oc- 
curred. One day the post brought him a note, in a feminine 
hand, without a signature, requesting him, in somewhat mysteri- 
ous terms, to meet the writer on the road to East Hock, during 


ALBAN. 


379 


the afternoon study hours. It concluded with the expression, that 
if Mr. Atherton was a sincere Catholic, he would not fail to come, 
as, according to his doctrine, the salvation of a soul was at stake. 
Alban was extremely perplexed. He did not like to take no 
notice of the communication, and it might be only a hoax, or any 
way, might get him into a scrape. However, on the very after- 
noon appointed, a visit from the Divinity Professor saved him 
from the necessity of deciding. 

He was thinking over this interview in the evening, and won- 
dering how so mild and genial a man as the Professor could be 
so bitter against a religion of whose doctrines he was entirely 
ignorant, when a tap at his door aroused him. It was a 
little black girl with another note from his unknoAvn correspond- 
ent. She reproached him for not meeting her at the time ap- 
pointed. 

“ I must, if possible, see you this evening,” pursued the note, 
“and shall wait on the Green for that purpose till my messenger 
returns. If you fail to come, (but surely you will not,) I shall lose 
that good opinion of you which I have hitherto preserved, in spite 
of all the nonsense that people talk,” 

Hemy Atherton had gone to a Wednesday evening lecture 
with Mary Ellsworth, (for it was Lent,) and Alban, after a single 
question to the sooty little messenger, threw on his cloak, put out 
the study lamp, and followed her. The paschal moon (then a few 
days ol-d) shed a pale illumination over the white Doric pile o.f the 
State House, and it was thither that the black girl directed her 
W'ay. When Atherton arrived at the foot of the lofty steps, he 
perceived a dark female figure between the columns. She dreAV 
behind a column as he ascended towards her, but when he stood 
by her in the portico, addressed him in a firm, pleasant voice, quite 
free from nervous trepidation. ’ 

“ Mr. Atherton, I am Miss Hartshorn,” said the lady. 

“ I remember you. Miss Hartshorn.” 

“ Mr. Atherton,” said Miss Hartshorn,” I won’t detain you by 
apologies for the step I have taken, since I owe none to you. 


380 


ALBAN. 


There is a theological student boarding at our house whom you 
know.” 

“ Walker. He is licensed and gone somewhere to preach as a 
candidate, — is he not ?” 

“ He went away, and came back sick with inflammation of 
the lungs. He has been lying at our house a fortnight. Pa thinks 
he will not live through it, and Mr. Walker himself expects to die. 
He wants to see you, Mr. Atherton, but they won’t let him. Mr. 
Walker has prevailed on me to tell you about it. I suppose it is ' 
wrong, but I am not a Christian, and I mean to take my chance 
of getting him a little peace of mind while he lives, at any rate. 
He has been out of his head, and they have allowed no one to see 
him but Professor , and one or two of Mr. Walker’s most par- 

ticular friends.” 

“ Is he out of his head still ?” 

“ Pa says not.” 

“ Dr. Hartshorn has been his physician, I suppose.” 

“ Pa and Dr. Reynolds both. Dr. Reynolds was for letting 
Mr. Walker see you, but pa and the ministers would not consent to 
it. Mr. Walker says he must die a Catholic, and wants you to 
get a priest for him, and all sorts of things. I think he is more dis- 
tracted by what he has on his mind, than delirious from the fever ; 
and always has been.” 

” Walker used to call on me frequently to dispute. I thought 
him very far from such a change.” 

“ He was always talking against you, Mr. Atherton — forever ! 
You see it was because he was disturbed by what you said. They 
say that his mind. is weakened by disease, (for he was a man of 
strong mind, Mr. Atherton,) and perhaps it is, but the horror he 
has of dying is awful. I promised him that I would see you my- 
self, and I did not know any better way than this. He gritted his 
teeth like a madman when I told him to-night that I had not 
succeeded in obtaining an interview with you. ‘ In twenty-four 
hours,’ said he, ‘ I shall be one of the damned. Have you no pity 
on me, Miss Hartshorn ?’ — You see that I could not refuse him, 


ALBAN. 


381 


but how you will manage to see him, Mr. Atherton, I cannot 
tell.” 

Walker was the same theological student whose mind had 
been so exercised in regard to the celibacy of priests. Alban was 
surprised that he had not even heard of his illness. Miss Harts- 
horn observed that “ they had kept very still about it.” She did 
not believe that Mr. Atherton would be suffered to have an inter- 
view with the dying man, and as for a priest, her father, who was 
a deacon in the Congregational Church, and the two ministers who 
daily attended at Mr. Walker’s bedside, would as soon think of 
admitting “ the old gentleman himself ;” by which Miss Harts- 
horn meant to signify a personage whom many people dislike to 
name. 

“ Shall you see Mr. Walker to-night so as to give him a mes- 
sage ?” asked Alban, after a little thought. 

“ Oh, yes ; I see him every night. His room is next to mine. 
I used to have to keep it locked pretty strictly when Mr. Walker 
was well, poor fellow ! But I don’t mind now, except on account 
of his watchers. They are theologues too. Very well-behaved 
young men. I have nothing to say against them. But I can go 
in when I like, to speak to Mr. Walker, and offer him his drink.” 

“ Well, tell him that you have seen me, and that I am going 
to send for a priest. I shall send an express this very night. Can 
you let me know. Miss Hartshorn, if any change occurs ?” 

“ Hetty here,” pointing to the little black girl, “ shall bring 
you word. I will run that risk. She is safe, but if any body 
should see her going to your room — why she lives with us, you 
understand.” 

“ Exactly. Let her come in the evening, if possible. I shall 
go openly to your father’s and ask to see Mr. Walker. Good-night, 
Miss Hartshorn. May God reward you for this.” 

“ I might have been afraid if it had been any one else,” said 
Miss Hartshorn, descending the white steps with him, “ but Mr. 
Walker told me that I might rely on Mr. Atherton’s treating me 
with as much respect alone as before a hundred witnesses. I hope 


382 


ALBAN. 


that I am not a bad girl, and that you won’t think me one, Mr. 
Atherton, although I don’t pretend to be a Christian.” 

Miss Hartshorn meant that she had never experienced a 
change of heart, not that she was either a Mahometan or an 
infidel. 

“I would trust you further. Miss Hartshorn,” said Alban, 
“ than some bright professors I know.” 


ALBAN. 


3S3 


CHAPTER IV. 

If the afiair at which our story is arrived concerned such a thing 
as that Mr. De Groot’s tenants were going to ruin him by refusing 
his rents ; if the hero’s life were in danger from an African despot 
or Spanish brigand ; if the matter were the abduction of a lovely 
heiress, or the fall of a princely house, we might hope to interest 
our readers. Yet a greater thing was at stake than the perpetua- 
tion of the Howards, or the rights of the Bourbons, or the liberty 
of the French, or the credit of the Rothschilds, or the nationality 
of Poland. The burning of the Industrial Exhibition, or the 
destruction of the Vatican Gallery with aU its masterpieces — the 
Apollo, the Laocoon, the Stanze of Raphael, the ceiling of the 
Sistine ; or the oblivion of a science — say chemistry or astronomy ; 
or any other like or worse misfortune that the civilized world 
would feel as a universal calamity, or aU together, could not 
make an unit wherefrom, by infinite multiples, one could express 
that catastrophe which now hung in the delicate balance of Provi- 
dence, and depended, under the Supreme, upon the clearness of 
our hero’s judgment, and on the energy of his will. 

A week had passed, and the paschal moon was past the full. 
The white State House on the green — modelled from the Temple 
of Theseus — shone like an earthly Luna, reflecting the beams of 
the just risen satellite. A youth, involved in a cloak, paced to and 
fro under the portico. By and by a little girl appeared at the foot 
of the vast white steps, and began to ascend them. When she 
got to the top she gave a billet to the young man in the cloak. 
While he read it she turned her face to the moon, and the face 
was black almost as the hood that surrounded it. When the 
young man had read the billet, he also looked up to the sky. 

“ Tell your mistress,” he said at last — 

“ Mis s ’Liza ?” demanded the little negress. 


384 


ALBAN. 


“ Miss Eliza — that I will come at eleven to-night.” 

The child of Afric sped her way home. Dr. Hartshorn’s 
house stood in a garden ; it was an old double house, with mighty 
elms before it, for Dr. Hartshorn was an old and respected inhabit- 
ant, an established physician, although as his family consisted of 
Mrs. Hartshorn and their da.ughter Eliza, he was willing to take 
a theological student as a boarder : for Dr. Hartshorn had been a 
deacon of the Congregationalist Church for thirty years, and was 
a very shining Christian, which your deacon sometimes is not. 
Little Hetty, (Dr. Hartshorn kept one female “ help,” a stout lad 
to do the chores, and Hetty,) — little Hetty went round to the 
kitchen door and admitted herself silently into the house. Ike — 
the lad that did the chores — was carrying in an armful of hickory 
from the well-piled wood-house to replenish the “ sittin’-room” fire, 
for “ them ministers” were there, as he gruffly informed the little 
negress. Hannah — the female help — was ironing, and made 
Hetty shut the outside door after Ike. 

The house was planned in this wise. In front, on one side of 
the hall was the best, or drawing-room, and on the other, the com- 
mon sitting-room, where the family took their meals. Back of 
the sitting-room was “ the bedroom ;” back of the best parlor was 
the kitchen, which extended across the hall, so that the only way 
out on that side of the house was through it. The doctor’s office 
was a sort of oflset or wing, opening into the bedroom internally 
and having a direct exterior door, as well as separate front gate, 
so that professional calls needed not to disturb the house. 

Above stairs there were the usual five bedrooms, to wit : two 
over the kitchen — one of which was small, corresponding to the 
width of the hall — and one over each of the other rooms. Thus, 
over the drawing-room, was the best or spare chamber. Back of 
it was the chamber of the female servants, Hannah and Hetty ; 
for although Hannah was white, she condescended to share her 
sleeping apartment with such a “ little nigger” as Hetty. But 
Hetty, of course, had a separate cot. Hannah would as soon have 
shared her bed with Ike, and Hannah was a girl of the starchest 


ALBAN. 


385 


virtue. Opposite the best chamber was the door of the sick-room ; 
and Miss Hartshorn’s apartment, as she has already told us, was 
the one back of that ; while the little room at the end of the 
chamber-entry — situate, of course, between Miss Hartshorn’s and 
Hannah’s — was occupied alternately during the night by the sick 
man’s watchers, who thus were enabled to relieve one another — a 
matter of some moment, as it was considered desirable not to 
summon a greater number of persons to Walker’s bedside than 
absolute necessity required. A sort of low piazza (painted red) 
ran along the back of the house ; and at the corner, where the 
office wing projected from the main building, it was easy for an 
active man to climb, by the aid of a window-shutter and the 
lightning-rod, which there descended, and so to get upon the 
“ shed,” or roof of the piazza ; whence again, it was easy, by the 
windows, (at least if one had a friend within,) to enter either 
Hannah’s room or the little chamber which the watchers occu- 
pied ; or, finally. Miss Hartshorn’s apartment. 

The ministers were assembled in Dr. Hartshorn’s sitting-room, 
and conversed on the perplexing alTair of their sick brother. There 
was a difierence of opinion between them, in regard to the course 
proper to be pursued. 

“ For my part,” said a dark, diffident-looking, but meditative 
man, who spoke in a rich voice, and very quietly, “ I am disposed 
to concede to Brother Walker in the matter of his wish to see 
young Atherlon. I do not see that principle is involved in deny- 
ing such a request, nor do I apprehend the evjl consequences from 
granting it, which the rest of the brethren seem to forebode.” 

“ I think on the contrary,” said a massive, practical-looking 
man, somewhat advanced in life, “ that there is jealousy enough, 
and bitter theological hatred enough, entertained in reference to 
the New Haven Seminary, without letting it go abroad that one 
of our licentiates has 'died a Papist, and that we have made our- 
selves, at least, accessories after the fact. It will be laid to the 
door of the New Haven divinity, depend upon it. Brother F.” 

“ I think the admission of Atherton is inconsistent with our 

S3 


386 


ALBAN. 


position and his,” said a very calm, still-voiced personage, who 
seemed to be a dignitary of no slight mark, as both the others 
directed their observations rather to him. “ The only middle course 
that occurs to me, is what I have already suggested — for I only 
suggest — namely, that we request one of the Episcopal clergymen 
in New Haven to visit Mr. Walker. Their Church uses a form 
of absolution, and it is possible that they may thereby quiet the 
conscience of this unhappy young man.” 

“ I would prefer to call in a Roman Catholic priest at once,” 
said a young clergyman who had not spoken before. “ If there is 
any thing in a human absolution that can benefit the soul in the 
presence of God” — he spoke in a hoarse and hollow voice — “ let 
us have it from an authentic source. None of this double-shuffle 
in religion — this miserable trumpery of the form, without even 
the profession of the power, which real Popery claims. Away 
with it, I say !” 

This speaker was thin, narrow-shouldered, long-necked, (which 
his white neckcloth exaggerated) and sallow in complexion. His 
forehead was high and broad, and his dark, saturnine eye was 
piercing. Near him sat, in the corner of the sofa, a minister 
(evidently such) of about the same apparent age, (say thirty-one 
or two,) but a strong contrast in other respects — light-haired, blue- 
eyed, softly florid, and graceful in figure. He was now appealed 
to by the mild dignitary, and spoke with great gentleness — almost 
too great for a man, and in a voice almost femininely sweet. 

“ As a stranger •! feel diffident in expressing, and indeed in 
forming an opinion. Are the brethren satisfied, may I ask, that 
this dying brother is now in the possession of his faculties ?” 

“ Perfectly,” said his dark-eyed neighbor, in his hollowest 
tone. 

“ It is, therefore, a case of wilful departure from God, and 
turning to a refuge of lies — at least so far as poor human eyes can 
judge; for it may be — we should trust so — but a permitted temp- 
tation of Satan, meant to cloud, for a time, our brother’s evidence, 
but from which he may yet emerge triumphant. In either point 


ALBAN. 


387 


of view ought we not to wait on the Lord for him in prayer, and 
leave the rest to God ?” 

This advice was like oil on the waters. The colloquy was 
turned into a prayer-meeting. One after another, (all kneeling,) 
at the request of the most forward, poured out a long and earnest 
supplication in behalf of the dying Walker. The deep monotone 
of their voices, changing in pitch from time to time, rolled on for 
nearly an hour. Eliza Hartshorn, who was working in the parlor 
opposite and keeping her mother company, thought they would 
never get through. In fact, the perplexity of the ministers was 
great and real. Humanity pled strongly with some of them in 
the dying man’s behalf, but theological prejudice, the fear of stul- 
tifying themselves, and awe of the opinion of their world restrained 
the impulse. 

At ten o’clock Mrs. Hartshorn laid aside her knitting, read her 
chapter, and prepared to retire. She recommended to her daugh- 
ter to follow her example, but Miss Hartshorn said that she should 
certainly sit up till the ministers were gone. Finally Dr. Harts- 
horn and Dr. Reynolds came in together from the office of the 
former, visited the patient, and, after a short consultation on the 
stairs, joined the clerical conclave. 

“ Well, doctor ?” 

“ Mr. Walker, gentlemen, draws near his end.” 

“ Will he last out the night, doctor ?” 

“ He may do so.” 

“ But you do not expect it.” * 

“ It is our opinion that Mr. Walker will not live two hours.” 

“Is he aware of the close proximity of death ?” 

“ We have thought it best that one of you gentlemen should 
communicate it to him. It is the duty of the priest rather than 
of the physician,” said Dr. Reynolds. 

After some consultation the dark-eyed, hollow-voiced , 

and the mild Professor F , who had been Walker’s immediate 

pastor before the latter became a licentiate, Avere deputed to this 
office. The took leave, pleading the hour and his age. Dr, 


388 


ALBAN. 


Reynolds also went off with the air of a man who felt himself no 
longer needed. 

"Walker was not greatly changed, except in color and expres- 
sion. A sort of green pallor overspread his features as he sat, 
supported by numerous pillows, in a position almost erect, on ac- 
count of his impeded respiration. Only one of his watchers was 
in the room ; the other had already retired, and was asleep in the 
little bedroom at the back end of the chamber entry. A study- 
lamp with a shade, stood on Walker’s, table, and the watcher sat 
by it in a rocking-chair. On the table were books and vials, 
glasses for medicine, and a decanter of wine. It had been neces- 
sary for some time to support the patient’s strength by stimulants. 

“How do you do, Mr. Wiley?” said the Professor, addressing 
the watcher in his softest voice. 

“ How do you do, brother Wiley ?” said the other minister in 
a deep tone. 

Mr. Wiley placed chairs for them by the bedside. Professor 
F , took Walker’s hand kindly and felt his pulse. It was im- 

perceptible, as the Professor gently intimated. 

“ What does that imply ?” said Walker. “ Death ?” 

“ We cannot hope that you will continue long with us. 
Walker, unless God should choose to make a change.” 

“ What do the doctors say ? How long have I to live ? Tell 
me the truth,” said the dying man, “ as you hope for God’s 
mercy.” 

“ We have no desire to conceal the truth from you, brother 
Walker,” said the other minister, more gently than he was wont. 
“ The doctors say that you are sinking. They fear that you will 
not live many hours.” 

“ How many?” asked Walker, gasping slightly. 

“Perhaps not two hours more,” said the minister firmly. 
“ You are quite pulseless, and there is effusion in the chest, which 
increases. These are fatal symptoms, brother Walker. We tell 
you in kindness, that you may use the time you have left to make 
your peace with God, if so be that you have not made it already.” 


ALBAN . 


389 


“For the love of God,” said Walker, beginning to breathe 
hard and quick, “ send for Alban Atherton. I must see a priest 
before I die. For God’s sake. Professor F., send for a priest to 
absolve me before I die. I shall go to hell. Oh, my God ! I 
M'ould go to purgatory willingly for a million of years — but ever- 
listing perdition ! These men have no mercy. God forgive you.” 

He seemed strangling ; but Mr. Wiley calmly brought a 
draught from the table ; the patient coughed and raised a quan- 
tity of frothy and sanguineous mucus ; then drank, and became 
quiet, though his eyes glared wildly from one to the other of his 
persecutors. 

“ There is no priest to be had, brother Walker,” continued 
the same minister ; for Professor F., pushing back his chair, seemed 
to -nbandon the case as beyond human reach : “ and besides, the 
hope you place in that source is but a refuge of lies — a reliance 
on which is the true cause that threatens your perdition. Who 
can forgive sins but God only ? Go directly to him. Not that it 
would be improper to unburden your mind to one of us, if you 
have any load of special guilt upon it. ‘ Confess your sins one to 
another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed.’ Not 
a word there about a priest.” 

“ We have been over this ground so often with' brother Wal- 
ker, that I think it is useless to recur to it now,” interposed Pro- 
fessor F. 

“ I wished once more to direct brother Walker’s mind away 
from priests and human absolutions, to the Lamb of God who 
taketh away the sins of the world,” said the hollow-voiced minis- 
ter solemnly. 

“How am I to apply His blood to my soul ?” asked Walker. 

“ By faith,” responded the minister, “ appropriating him as 
5'our Saviour, and renouncing all dependence on your own righ- 
teousness.” 

“ Will you pray ?” said W'alker, addressing the Professor, “ and 
then leave me ? I wish to be alone.” 

The ministers and Mr. Wiley knelt, and Professor F. began to 

83 * 


390 


ALBAN. 


pray. He was not very fluent, but commeneed, apparently from 
habit, by addressing Almighty God “ who by thy apostle hast 
said, ‘ If any be sick among you, let him call for the elders of the 
Church, and let them pray over him’ — ” 

“ ‘ Anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord,’ — why 
don’t you go on with the text ?” interrupted Walker. 

This disconcerted Professor F., who soon brought the prayer 
to a conclusion, and his hollow-voiced ministerial brother sighed 
deeply as they rose from their knees. 

People moved through the passages, and on the stairs. Some 
were females, from their lighter tread and rustling garments. By 
and by the house became quiet. Mr. Wiley was to call the fam- 
ily if any change occurred, and Hannah, before going to bed, 
stopped at the door to let him know that there was hot w'ater in 
case it were needed. Dr. Hartshorn came in again before retiring. 
As he quitted the sick-room he tried the door communicating with 
his daughter’s to ascertain if it was locked on the other side, 
which it was. But Miss Hartshorn was still in the parlor, and 
her father looked in upon her. 

“ Come, Eliza, it is time you were in bed. It is already con- 
siderably past eleven.” 

“ I cannot bear to go to bed, pa, when any person is dying in 
the house.” 

“ Nonsense, child. I desire that you will go up stairs, at all 
events, immediately. I shall not retire as long as any one is 
stirring below. Come.” 

So Miss Hartshorn took her candle and slowly went up the 
stairs. Her father tried the outer doors, and withdrew the key 
from the lock. He did not go into his chamber till his daughter’s ' 
figure was no longer visible from below, and even then he left the 
door ajar, so that no one could descend the stairs without his 
knowing it. 

Miss Hartshorn did not repair directly to her room ; she went 
to the sick-room and tapped. Mr. Wiley came to the door. She 
asked a question, and Mr. Wiley came out — nay, he gently closed 


ALBAN. 


391 


the door all but a crevice — while he answered her. They whis- 
pered awhile, Miss Hartshorn, who was an engaging girl of five- 
and-twenty, looking very modest, but much interested. 

“ Don’t stand there in the entry with your candle, Eliza,” said 
her father’s voice from below. 

“ No, sir,” cried Miss Hartshorn, and with a saucy air, by 
signs, invited Mr. Wiley into the opposite or spare chamber, to 
finish what he had to say. Without much hesitation the young 
man complied, and the candle no longer shining in the entry, her 
father returned to his room. 

Meanwhile Alban was kneeling by Walker’s bedside. 

“ I am dying, Atherton. I want a priest. Confession — abso- 
lution ! I am a great sinner.” 

“ I expected a priest to-night, but he has not arrived. To- 
morrow he will certainly be here.” 

“To-morrow! I have not two hours to live,” said Walker 
feebly, and struggling for breath. Weak as he was, he suppressed 
the inclination to cough, but the blood flowed from his lips. “ No 
hope for me !” 

“ Say not so, my dear Walker ; God does not require impossibil- 
ities. An act of perfect contrition, with the desire of the sacra- 
ment which you have, is sufficient to blot out your sins in a 
moment. I have never confessed. I am preparing to do so when 
Father O’Ryan comes. But if I were to die to-night, I trust I 
should be saved. The doctrine of the Church is, that perfect 
contrition — which is genuine sorrow for sin from the love of God, 
whom sin offends — suflices without the sacrament, if we desire 
the sacrament and purpose to receive it when we have opportuni- 
ty, as you and I both do.” 

“ But who can give me perfect contrition ! Alas, my sorrow 
I'or sin proceeds almost wholly from fear of hell. I think of 
naught else, day and night, but those eternal ffames. I have 
sinned so grievously. Let me whisper in your ear.” 

Alban turned pale as he listened to Walker’s whispers.” 

“ There is no hope for me ! you feel it ?” 


392 


ALBAN. 


“You have sinned grievously — ” 

“ Oh, that is only one — the greatest — ” 

“ But the blood of Christ cleanseth from all sin. It matters 
not how guilty we are ; one drop of that precious blood is sufficient 
to make us whiter than snow.” 

“ But how is it to be applied to my soul ?” It was the same 
question which he had put to the ministers. 

“ The sacraments apply the blood of Christ to the soul, if 
they are received with suitable dispositions,” replied Alban ; “ but 
there is no minister of the sacraments here, unless of baptism. 
Are you sure that you have been baptized ?” 

Walker had been baptized in infancy by his father, who was a 
Congregationalist minister of the old school, and was accustomed 
to use trine affusion with great particularity. Walker had seen 
his father baptize often. 

“ There cannot he a doubt that you have been baptized,” said 
Alban. “ Perhaps I must teach you a little. Life is the direct 
gift of God, Walker, yet it comes to us by the ministry of our 
parents, by the sacrament, if one may say so, of natural genera- 
tion. It is God who sustains us, who heals us ; hut it is by the 
natural sacraments of food and medicine. Nor can it be other- 
wise in the spiritual world. There is a ministry and a sacrament 
of spiritual birth, healing, sustenance. God seems to do nothing 
without a form, which united to a certain appointed matter, con- 
veys to us his manifold benefits. You have not feared, my dear 
Walker, to profane the innocence and the life of grace which God 
gave you in baptism, and now you need another sacrament of 
Divine institution to heal your w'ounded soul, to renew within 
you the justice which you have lost. Christ’s blood has purchased 
for you the right to such a renewal — to such a medicine. Christ’s 
word has provided it for you in the sacrament of penance ; but a 
minister to whom He has said ‘ Whose sins you shall forgive they 
are forgiven,’ is wanting to apply it.” 

“ Ah, you plunge me in despair,” said Walker, whose eyes 
were fixed on Alban’s lips. 


ALBAN. 


393 


“ Man doth not live btj bread alone, but by every word that 
proceedeth out of the mouth of God,'’ answered Alban, solemnly 
and tenderly. “ The compassion of our Creator and Redeemer is 
infinite. You must have perfect contrition, certainly, and perfect 
contrition is vei'y difficult to elicit ; it is impossible without spe- 
cial grace, as the Church teaches. I know of but one certain way 
to obtain it — to interest the Saints in our behalf. God will grant 
to their prayers what He justly withholds from ours. St. James 
assures us of it. The sacred heart of Jesus, and that of His 
blessed Mother, are the refuge of sinners. Fly to them, dear 
Walker, in these straits. No one, however stained with sin, was 
ever lost who had recourse, with perfect confidence, to Jesus and 
Mary. All the Saints say that. For in every exigency God 
devises means to bring His banished back. Weak, alone, cut off 
from the ministrations of the visible Church, your faith. Walker, 
places you in the fellowship oftheinvisibleandtriumphant Church. 
From their bright thrones they watch you, expecting that cry 
which claims their aid. It is not in vain for us that they reign 
with Christ — believe it firmly.” 

Walker’s eyes filled with tears. He Avas prepared to believe 
all. A great scene opened upon him with the clearness of death- 
bed vision — a great and holy society, partly visible, partly unseen, 
but travailing in charity for him ; the Lamb of God, the Fount 
of all that love, its bond the Divine Humanity. If he had been 
left without the ordinary means which God, as Alban cited from 
Holy Writ, “ devises to bring His banished back,” it was only that 
that charity might reveal itself by overflowing its appointed 
channels, which is nothing but charity when it restrains itself 
Avithin them. < 

Mr. Wiley, having Avhispered as long as he thought decency 
permitted with Miss Hartshorn, in the spare chamber, returned 
into the passage ; but behold the sick-room door Avas shut. Mr. 
Wiley tried the handle in silence, but the key had been turned on 
the inside. 

“ Good gracious. Miss Hartshorn !” 


394 


ALBAN. 


“ Really ! wliat can have happened ?” 

“ May I pass through your room, Miss Hartshorn ?” 

“ Oh, sir, through my room, indeed !” 

“ Your door is locked, too. Miss Hartshorn” — after trying it, in 
spite of her reclamations. — “ What is to be done, indeed !” The 
cold sweat stood on Mr. Wiley’s forehead. “ Can he have got 
up ?” — listening at the door. “ Some one is talking to him,” he 
said, with great agitation. 

Miss Hartshorn’s quick ear caught her father stirring. She 
blew out the light with great presence of mind, and w'hispered 
her companion to be still. In fine, the doctor came groping up 
stairs. Miss Hartshorn drew Mr. Wiley, confounded at the dilem- 
ma, into the spare room again. The bright moon shone in at the 
window of the entry, but the closed shutters excluded it from the 
spare room. The doctor came to the door of the sick chamber 
and listened ; he heard a low voice as in prayer. The rigid 
countenance of the Congregational deacon, supposing that he 
heard Mr. Wiley himself, smoothed in the moonlight into an 
expression of contented piety. With noiseless steps he returned 
to his own sanctum below. 

It must not be supposed that Mr. Wiley abused the opportu- 
nity of the situation by any reckless act of gallantry towards Miss 
Hartshorn. It is true that she kept herself as far as possible from 
him ; but he was also too conscience-stricken, and too full of ap- 
prehension in regard to the fault which he had already committed 
in deserting his charge. With slow, agonizingly-muflled steps he 
again approached the fatal door. 

They could both faintly hear the Litany of the departing. 


“ Lord have mercy ; Christ have mercy ; Lord have mercy. 
“ Holy Mary, pray for him. 

“ All you holy Angels and Archangels, pray for him. 

“ Holy Abel, pray for him. 

“ Whole Choir of the Just, pray for him. 

“ Holy Abraham, pray for him. 

“ Holy Jolui Baptist, pray for him. 


ALBAN. 


395 


“Holy Joseph, pray for him. 

“ All ye holy Patriarchs and Prophets, pray for him.” 

Soon the strain altered. 

“Be merciful. Spare him, 0 Lord. 

“ Be merciful. Deliver him, O Lord. 

“Be merciful. Receive him, 0 Lord. 

“ From thy anger, 

“From the perils of death, 

“ From an evil death, 

“ From the pains of hell, 

“ From every evil, 

“From the power of the devil. 

Deliver him, 0 Lord. 

“ By thy nativity, 

“ By thy cross and passion, 

“By thy death and burial, 

“By thy glorious resurrection, 

“ By thy wonderful ascension, 

"By the grace of the Holy Ghost, 

“ In the day of judgment. 

Deliver him, 0 Lord. 

“ Sinners, we beseech Thee hear us. 

“ That Thou mayest spare him, we beseech Thee hear us. 

“ Lord have mercy ; Christ have mercy ; Lord have mercy.” 

“ Is it a Catholic priest who is with him ?” whispered Mr, 
Wiley, in a tone of aw'e. 

“ I don’t know. Listen.” 

But all was a low confused murmur of question and faint 
reply, till the same clear, soft voice was heard reciting, deliber- 
ately, the Acts of Faith and Hope, and of Divine Love, and the 
Act of Contrition ; and something that might be supposed to be 
an Amen followed each. Miss Hartshorn knelt all the while at 
the door, and was weeping. Twice again the low accents re- 
peated the Act of Contrition, which, if indeed it be assented to 
with all the heart, this sinner’s salvation is secure. 

“ 0 holy and compassionate Virgin, Mother of Mercy and 


396 


ALBAN. 


Refuge of sinners, suffer not this soul to perish for lack of thy all- 
powerful intercession, which in its last hour turns to thee the eye 
of hope. By the sword of suffering that pierced thy heart 
beneath the cross, he his advocate with thy Almighty Son, his 
Redeemer. 

“ 0 Jesus, who hast shed every drop of thy blood for him, melt 
his heart by one glance of thine infinite charity ; remember him, 
Lord, in thy kingdom ; say to him as Thou didst to the thief who 
confessed to thee on the cross, ‘ This day thou shalt he with me in 
Paradise.’ From all eternity Thou hast foreseen this hour. Be- 
hold he is the child of time, and he has abused thy gifts, but his 
sole hope, 0 Saviour of men, is in thy mercy. Shed abroad in his 
heart a ray of that perfect charity which effaces in a moment the 
multitude of sins, for this gift also is thine ; or else, 0 Lord, all- 
powerful, preserve him yet a little while for the sacrament of thy 
reconciliation, which he so fervently desires.” 

These prayers were interrupted by Walker’s coughing. The 
fit was severe, and was succeeded by panting moans as of one 
struggling for breath. Wiley could not refrain any longer from 
tapping on the door, and Alban came presently and opened it. 
Wiley went in with a cowed and guilty look. Walker was now 
suffering fearfully, 

“ Air ! Air ! Air !” he articulated ; his countenance was of a 
darker lividity, and his lips bubbled with bloody foam, which 
Wiley wiped away with a handkerchief. A dra>ight which the 
latter offered he put aw'ay with his hand. His strength was so 
great that he raised himself entirely from the pillows and sat un- 
supported save by Wiley’s arm. 

“ Give me — Air !” 

Wiley motioned to Miss Hartshorn Avho stood within the 
threshold. She understood him and ran down for her father. In 
a moment Dr. Hartshorn came up, with his dressing-robe thrown 
round him. After a glance at the bed, not even noticing Alban, 
he took a vial from the table and administered to the sick man a 
spoonful of liquid. A smell of ether was diffused through the 


ALBAN, 


397 


apartment. Walker ceased to cry for air and fell back slightly 
panting on the pillow. His eyes sought Atherton, who had knelt 
again by the bedside. Having never seen death, Alban was not 
alarmed. 

“ Do you believe in God,” he said in a low voice, “ and in all 
that He has revealed to His Church ; the Trinity of Persons in the 
Unity of the Godhead, the Incarnation of His Son Jesus Christ 
of the Ever-virgin, His death for our sins. His resurrection for our 
justification, the perpetuation of His sacrifice and the presence of 
His Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity in the adorable Sacrament 
of the Altar, the Remission of Sins by the power of the Keys which 
He has left to His Church, and in general all that is believed and 
taught as of faith by the Holy, Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman 
Church, out of which there is no possibility of salvation ?” 

“ I believe all,” said Walker, with a faint eagerness. 

“ You hope in the infinite goodness of God, and in His gra- 
cious promises to you, though a sinner, for salvation through the 
blood of Christ, that is, the infinite merits of his sacred pas- 
sion ?” 

“ It is all my hope.'” 

“ It grieves you to the heart to have ever offended by thought, 
word, or deed, this God and Saviour ?” 

“ To the heart.” 

“ You desire to be reconciled to the Church by penance and 
absolution, were it possible ?” continued Alban, in a trembling 
voice. 

“ God knows that I desire it — I ask not to live one moment 
longer than may suffice for that.” 

“ Yet once more,” pursued Alban, hurriedly ; “ you are willing, 
however, to die whenever it pleases God, and you accept your 
death in the spirit of penance, humbly offering it to God in union 
with the death of His beloved Son ?” 

Walker raised his eyes to heaven, but answered not with his 
lips. He seemed so collected and so calm, that no one but the 
physician could believe that the end was so near. Dr. Hartshorn 

84 


398 


ALEAN. 


had stared at Alban wildly at first, and then fixed his gaze upon 
the sick. Mrs. Hartshorn had come up from the room in the garb 
of haste, and stood with her daughter at the bed’s foot. Little 
Hetty had also somehow glided in, and stood with her black arms 
crossed on her breast, in her coarse chemise and petticoat. 

Alban began to murmur prayers, to invoke the sweet names 
of Jesus and Mary. He took a crucifix from his bosom and 
offered it to Walker’s lips. 

“ Behold with faith Him whom your sins have pierced, but 
who has washed them out in His heart’s blood.” 

The dying man looked at the image of Him who was “ lifted 
up like the serpent in the wilderness,” with an expression of un- 
utterable tenderness and compunction. His eyes wandered round 
as if he saw something in the room. He made an attempt to 
speak, but could only articulate faintly the words “ Jesus ! Mary I” 

There was a slam of the outer gate, followed quickly by a 
firm, loud knock at the street door. Little Hetty d.isappeared at 
a sign from her mistress, for Dr. Hartshorn was wholly absorbed. 
The eyes of Walker were glazed ; his jaw had fallen ; he lay 
motionless. Mrs. Hartshorn was about to draw away the pillows 
from under the corpse, but her husband prevented her. Little 
Hetty came running in again, and whispered to Miss Eliza, who 
in turn whispered Atherton. The latter started up and went out. 
He returned in a minute, bringing in a gray-haired man in a long 
overcoat, and wrapped up as from night travel. The stranger 
approached the bedside, (even Dr. Hartshorn giving way before his 
air of quiet authority,) and uttered w'ithout delay some words in 
a voice almost inaudible, making a rapid sign in the air with one 
hand. The dying drew one soft breath, that just raised the linen 
over the breast. All waited in silence for another, but it came 
not, and at length it became manifest that all was over. 


ALBAN. 


399 


CHAPTER. V. 

Walker’s funeral, agreeably to the custom of the country, took 
place on the second day after his decease. His father and only 
sister had arrived but the day before ; they had been sent for at 
an early period of his danger, but their journey was from far and 
by winter roads. They were plunged in the deepest grief, for he 
was their hope and stay, and the trying circumstances of his last 
illness, considered in a religious point of view, could not be kept 
from their knowledge. The father, a respectable Congregational- 
ist minister in Western New York, was profoundly humiliated by 
his son’s death-bed apostasy : the daughter (now a sole surviving 
child) seemed stunned. A grave and stern sympathy pervaded 
New Haven ; Alban Atherton’s name was hardly mentioned 
•without some indignant sentence which on other lips would have 
been an execration ; the Episcopalians alone secretly exulted in 
the blow inflicted on the pride and bigotry of the “standing order.” 

Early in the morning (it w'as Good Friday, but the college 
routine was not interrupted for that) a young student visited the 
house where the dead lay. He was shown by little Hetty into 
the best parlor, where a white-haired but hale-looking man, cleri- 
cally attired, and a pale girl in black, already were. Mr. Walker, 
senior, was placid in mien, but his mouth had that stern compres- 
sion of the thin lips over the jaw, which is so common in New 
England. He spoke not, but his look said to the student, “What 
do you want with me ?” 

“ My errand,” said the young man, after a brief but earnest 
exi<ression of sympathy with the affliction of those whom he ad- 
dressed, “ regards the performance of the last rites of religion at 
cur friend’s burial.” 

“ The Reverend Doctor , is to conduct them,” said the 

senior Walker quickly. . 


400 


ALBAN . 


“ At the house, pa,” said Miss Walker. “ The Reverend Mr. 
is to officiate at the grave.” 

“ I have no wish,” said the young man, •' to propose any thing 
that can conflict with these arrangements, which have been 
adopted in accordance with the feelings of survivors. The sole 
request which I would prefer in the name of the Catholic priest 
now here, is that on the way from the house to the grave the re- 
mains of your son, sir, may be taken to the Catholic chapel. The 
object, I need scarcely say, is to pay them those rites of respect 
which are due toone who died in our holy faith.” 

Mr. Walker started as if stung. Miss Walker stared at the 
speaker, as if she for the first time understood who he was, and was 
petrified at the presumption of his request — indeed, at the audacity 
of his coming. The father only answered quietly, 

“ My son, I hope, died a Christian. I want no mummeries over 
his body.” 

There was something so definitive, so absolute in the tone in 
which this was uttered, that the youth felt it would be vain to uvg# 
any thing further. Yet he turned to the daughter. Women are 
more accessible, more open to conviction than men. 

“ Let me claim your intercession. Miss Walker,” said Alban. 

“ You cannot have it, sir,” answered Miss Walker. “ Why do 
you come here to add to our affliction by such proposals ?” Her 
frame, which was slight, trembled with passion. 

Alban rose. 

“I have a message to deliver to you. Miss Walker, which 
your brother, a little before he died, requested me to impart to you 
alone.” 

Miss Walker’s pale face changed to crimson. Her father, 
gazing sternly out of the window, evidently listened not. In a 
minute the daughter rose, pale again, paler than before, and 
beckoned Alban to follow her. She preceded him up stairs to the 
room which had been her brother’s. The door was locked, but 
the key was outside, and she turned it. The room was cold, but 
cheerful with the sun. The bedstead had been stripped of its 


ALBAN. 


401 


furniture ; the hooks, toilet, and table were arranged with the for- 
mal precision of a vacant chamber ; but supported on three chairs 
was the open coffin with its stiff and white tenant. There were 
no flowers, as in the half-heathen Germany ; no candles burning, 
as in Catholic lands ; the dead lay coldly, but not unimpressively, 
alone. 

“ Here,” said Miss Walker, seeming to lean on her brother’s 
coffin for support, “ we shall not be interrupted, and this cold pres- 
ence is propriety.” 

Miss Walker’s features were not beautiful ; she was too dark 
and pale ; but she had a fine brow and large, dark, piercing eyes, 
full of melancholy. Her figure, in deep mourning, was remarkable 
only for its extreme fragility. Her attitudes and movements were 
somewhat rigid and ungraceful. She^bent on Alban those mourn- 
ful eyes v/ith an expression of fear, expectation, and distressful 
curiosity, mingled with something of womanly embarrassment, per- 
haps of maiden shame. 

“ Your brother fell into a grievous sin, not unknown to you,” 
said Alban, “ and he crowned the sin, as you also know, by a great 
injustice, and added a falsehood, which came little short of perjury, 
to shield himself from the consequences ; finally, when driven to 
desperation, procured the commission of what even human laws 
punish as a crime, and which certainly is a great one in the sight 
of God. A great part of this is irreparable ; but the person whom 
he has injured is known to you ; it may be in your power to save 
her from further degradation and eternal ruin. He implores you 
to do it, even if his reputation should be thereby endangered. Do 
not be so overwhelmed — Miss Walker. God has pardoned your 
brother, we trust, and that is the important thing. Perhaps but 
for this fall he had not beefi saved. It is only a divine restraint 
upon us that prevents any of us from rushing uito wickedness.” 

“ I never knew his sin till it was too late to do more than 
conceal it as best I could.” 

“ If concealment had not been unjust to another,” said Alban. 

“ She deserved her fate,” said the sister of Walker, looking 

34 » 


402 


ALBAN. 


up. “ Not that I excuse my brother ; but he was a man. A 
woman who forgets what is due to her sex, Mr. Atherton, must 
and ought to bear the penalty.” 

“ Would he say so now, who has met, face to face, the justice 
of God ?” said Alban, glancing down at those features locked in 
the tranquillity which knows no earthly comparison. 

Miss Walker bowed herself over the calm, white face, from 
which Alban had lifted the light fall of muslin that covered it, 
and hurst into sobs. Their violence racked her delicate frame. 
Some low words escaped her in which nothing but “ Brother,” 
was distinguishable. 

“ And now I may say,” continued Alban, “that we are not 
anxious to claim your brother as a convert for the sake of any 
credit that would hence redound to our religion. He fled to the 
Church as an ark of safety from the wrath of God. The Divine 
mercy inspired him with such dispositions, so far as we can judge, 
that the priest, whose word and sign in the last unconscious mo- 
ment of existence swept away the airy barrier which yet separated 
him from the visible communion of God’s Elect, entertains iro 
doubt of his salvation, and is ready to attest the fact of his recep- 
tion into the Church by granting his mortal remains the last 
honors of the flesh which is to rise in Christ’s image. For the 
repose of his soul, masses shall be offered. Whatever measure of 
just retribution his spirit sufiers, the merits of the Divine sacrifice 
are applicable to expiate and relieve. Body and soul he belongs 
to Christ — not to Satan. That is what we wish to say. Miss 
Walker, — what we dare to say — let the cruel, harsh-judging, un- 
forgiving world talk of him as it will.” 

Now the sister’s tears fell fast, but in silence. Although the 
quick transitions and delicate links of reasoning, than which ada- 
mant were more easily shivered, haflled a female attention in most 
that Alban would say on such subjects, the main drift was intelli- 
gible to a woman through her heart. A certain apprehension of 
punishment is inseparable from the knowledge of guilt in ourselves 
or those near to us. Hence Alban had touched the riMit string 

D O 


ALBAN. 


403 


when he pointed out to Miss Walker that the Church extended 
over her brother in death, the arm of courageous love and theasgis 
ol the name ol Christ. She was softened enough to reason with 
the young student whom at first she had regarded but with indig- 
nation and horror, 

“ I cannot imagine,” said she, gently replacing the muslin 
over the face of the dead, “ how an absolution which seems to 
have been pronounced when my brother was unconscious, and 
actually breathing his last, should affect his state. You attach a 
value to forms, Mr. Atherton, which appears very strange.” 

“ Because behind the veil of the form we see something that 
you do not — Jesus Christ gliding into the chamber and saying to 
the departing, ‘ Thy sins be forgiven thee.’ But I must not tarry 
longer.” The young man bowed for a moment over the dead, 
and turned away. “ It is not good for you to remain here long,” 
he said, allowing her to pass out before him. When they reached 
the bottom of the stairs, he extended his hand without alluding to 
the business which had occasioned his visit. 

“ I will get pa to consent to your proposal about — ” said she, 
avoiding the conclusion of the sentence. “ And in regiird to the 
other matter — it rests between us, I hope, Mr. Atherton? We 
may never meet again, sir, but you may be assured that my bro- 
ther’s dying request is something that I shall consider sacred.” 

The funeral was in the afternoon. A crowd of students and 
citizens of New Haven, with many ladies, filled every room within 
the house. Without were collected a great number of Irish servants 
and laborers, mingled with the more ordinary class of town-people. 
At one time, from the excited feeling between the Catholic and 
Protestant portions of the crowd outside, an excitement fanned by 
various reports, there were symptoms of a battle, but the arrival 
of the ministers produced a calm by diverting the attention of the 
multitude. 

The exercises consisted of an address to those assembled, and 
a prayer. Both were -made in the hall at the foot of the stairs, 
and Avere listened to, in breathless silence, by the men who filled 


404 


ALBAN. 


« * 


the lower portion of the house ; with tears and some audible 
sobbing by the females in the chambers. The address of Profes- 
sor was cautious and painful. He spoke of the lessons to 

be drawn from the death of one so young — “ in the opening bud 
of manhood and usefulness, and so recently full of health and 
sfrength.” He applied to the surviving friends the ordinary topics 
of instruction and consolation ; but he said very little of the de- 
parted, which, considering that it w'as almost a clerical brother, 
seemed a significant omission, and struck a chill into the breasts 

of his auditors. The Rev. Mr. ’s prayer was more fluent, 

and his hollow tones reverberated with an awe-impressing effect ; 
but he, also, much more slightly and vaguely alluded to the 
deceased than was his wont. He made amends by praying fer- 
vently that all present might be preserved from false dependences, 
from every refuge of lies, from all the cunning devices of Satan, 
even when he disguised himself as an angel of light, (here every 
eye was directed, or at least, every thought, to the form of Ather- 
ton, who stood in the doorway among the bearers,) and that every 
stronghold of his, whether pagan or papistic, might speedily be 
overturned by the power of the Word of God, and so on, which 
was listened to eagerly, and found in every listener a ready inter- 
preter. 

The procession was formed. The pall-bearers took their 
places. There was only one carriage, occupied by the mourners ; 
the citizens followed on foot ; the students walked on before the 
hearse. It proceeded by an unusual road, which many, indeed,, 
did not understand, until a pause occurred before the low building 
with a cross on the gable. Those whose duty it was to bear the 
coffin, when taken from the hearse, here refused to act ; but six 
Irish laborers, decently clad in black, came forward and supplied 
their places. However, curiosity carried most of those present 
into the chapel, and it became filled. Unfamiliar, and some of 
them apprehensive, the crowd gazed upon the black hangings, 
which had not been removed since the morning service, (it was 
Good Friday,) and the candles burning by day. 


ALBAN. 


405 


The body of Walker passed a threshold, which living it had 
never crossed ; and psalms w’ere recited in the ear of the dead, 
which living it had never heard ; holy water was sprinkled on 
the inanimate flesh, which living had never used that salutary 
aspersion ; lights burned and incense waved around that body, 
which living had never rendered like honors to the glorious Body 
of the Lord. Such was the Church’s acknowledgment of peni- 
tence and faith, though testified at the final hour. Nor did she 
avoid his name, w'hich once before she had uttered, when she 
bore him in baptism. She breathed it now in prayer, commend- 
ing his spirit to the mercy of Him Who created it. 

“ Requiem etemam dona ei, Domine. 

“ Et lux perpetua luceat ei. 

“ Requiescat in pace. 


Amen.’ 


406 


ALBAN . 


CHAPTER VI. . 

“ A BOY like this cannot be permitted to triumph over us all.” 
— “ The spirit of insubordination appears already. Nothing else 
was talked of in commons to-night, and those who were opposed to 
Atherton’s views sympathized with his victory over the faculty.” — 

“ The weakest thing w'as brother ’s speech at the grave — 

why should he speak at all ?” — “ The students dispersed smiling 
and laughing. But I wonder that more decided measures were 
not taken to prevent that significant demonstration at the Cath- 
olic chapel.” — “ It was a mistake all round. Atherton, who 
(between us) is the very deuce among the women, persuaded 
Walker’s sister, and she made the old man consent. But Master 
Alban has laid himself open to discipline in that visit to Walker. I 
suppose you know that he entered Dr. Hartshorn’s house near upon 
midnight, by Miss Hartshorn’s chamber window.” — “ Shocking ! 
scandalous ! and he a professor ! Isn’t it a misdemeanor, a tres- 
pass, or something of that sort ? Dr. Hartshorn should bring 
him before a justice of the peace.” — “ His daughter’s share in it 
prevents his doing that. But there is nothing to prevent an in- 
vestigation before the faculty.” — “ That ’ll be rich. Atherton 
will be expelled — don’t you think ?” — “ I am sorry for him,” 
with a look of mysterious knowledge, “ hut he has brought this 
thing upon himself.” 

Thus a pair of tutors gossiped as they returned from their 
evening walk. 

These subordinates but echoed a determination of the superior 
members of the college government. The proceedings of the fac- 
ulty of Yale College are always marked by promptitude. The 
morning of the day following Walker’s funeral, Alban was sum- 
moned before them ; few witnesses were required, for the culprit 
admitted most of the facts alleged against him, 


ALBAN. 


407 


A majority of the younger members of the faculty, and one 
or two of the older professors whose natures were more despotic 
and their religious antipathies more violent, were in favor of ex- 
pulsion, or at least dismission. But the venerable President, the 
amiable and gifted Professor F., and others, opposed so extreme a 
measure. This body is one of a remarkable sagacity, which has ever 
tempered its instinctive jealousy as a government. There was 
danger, as the acute and practical S. pointed out, in carrying Ath- 
erton’s punishment beyond what was necessary to save themselves 
from contempt ; it was wiser to fall short of the severity desired 
by the public feeling than to awaken sympathy for the sufferer by 
the semblance of vindictiveness. These temperate counsels pre- 
vailed, and Alban Atherton, more humiliated by his trial than 
aggrieved by a sentence which virtually acquitted him of every 
thing not openly acknowledged by himself, was rusticated for three 
months — being the entire remainder of his college course. 

The President’s room was directly under Atherton’s — “ Awful 
handy for you !” said St. Clair, who tried to keep up his cousin’s 
courage under these painful circumstances by a fire of constrained 
jests. All Saturday afternoon he heard the voices of those who 
were sitting there and deciding upon his fate ; at six o’clock he 
went in to hear his sentence from the lips of the President, as well 
as to receive the “ admonition” which was a formal part of the 
punishiiieiil. 

The day which he had thus spent had been fixed for his first 
confession, and as soon as he could get away, he hurried to the 
Catholic chapel. He found it full of servant-girls and laborers 
waiting their turn, and crowding, not to say pushing, each other 
round the door of the sacristy in order to secure it. It might be. 
nearly half-past seven when Atherton came in, and he remained 
more than three hours kneeling at one of the back benches, trying 
to recall the matter he had previously prepared, and to excite him- 
self to contrition. In spite of his efibrts at recollection, his mind 
v/andeied — now to the sentence which, in all its mild wording and 
severe sense, rung in his ears, now to the mortifying details of liis 


408 


ALBAN . 


trial, ill which he might have said so much that he did not say, (in 
reply to attacks,) and omitted so much (that was indiscreet) which 
he had said ; then to Walker’s death and funeral, his interview 
with the father and sister, and the probable effect of all upon his 
own parents, the De Groota, and all his near or distant friends. 

At about eleven o’clock the chapel was at last cleared, and he 
entered the sacristy with a beating heart. The old priest rose from 
the confessional and met him. 

“ My dear sir, you must not think of coming to confession to- • 
night. If I had had a suspicion of your being here I would have 
come out of the sacristy to tell you so. It is impossible, my dear 
young friend, that after what you haf e passed through to-day you 
can be sufficiently recollected to make a first confession. God will 
take the will for the deed. Return to your room and sleep upon 
it. To-morrow you will hear mass quietly, and in the afternoon, 
or Monday morning, whichever you prefer, I will see you here, and 
w^e can take it leisurely.” 

“ On Monday morning, Father O’Ryan, I must quit New Haven. 

I am rusticated.” 

“Have they gone so far? — Well,” giving Atherton’s hand a 
warm pressure — “ thank God ! thank God ! you begin to suffer a 
little for the faith. What a favor to you, my dear friend ! Now 
dori^t trouble yourself about this confession. Let me see. You go 
on Monday morning. Perhaps you will like to make a beginning 
to-night, and I dare say you can finish to-morrow.” 

“ I think I will not attempt to do any thing to-night, if I 
can have an hour to-morrow all in a lump,” said Atherton. 

“ Then I will hurry to my hotel and take a bite before twelve 
o’clock,” said the priest, “for I have two masses to-morrow, and 
to-day, of course, I have had but one meal. As that was ten hours 
ago, and I have been in this dreadful confessional ever since, I feel 
rather used up.” 

“ My dear Father O’Ryan ! and you talked of hearing my con- 
fession !” 

“ Why, to tell the truth,” said the missionary with a gruff 


ALBAN. 


409 


cheerfulness, “ I hardly knew how I should stand it if I didn’t get 
something to eat before midnight. Not but that I’ve done it in 
my day, but this has been a hard week. In vigiliis, injejuniis 
often comes to my mind, Mr. Atherton. We stagger under a trifle 
of fasting for twenty-four hours — what would we think of the 
watchings and fastings of St. Paul ?” 

So on Sunday Alban came in the afternoon to the chapel, but 
found it closed. Not a soul knew why. He went round to the 
hotel. The missionary was gone, having been called away to a place 
thirty miles ofT to visit a person at the point of death. He had left 
a pencilled note for Atherton, which thus concluded. 

“ Thank God, my dear friend, for this fresh disappointment, it 
being His will to try you a little longer. To be perfectly resigned 
to the will of the Almighty is better than to receive absolution 
with ordinary good dispositions. Be humble enough to say from 
the heart jiat voluntas tua, and grace itself can do no more for 
you.” 

With faint steps the young convert approached his boarding- 
house at the hour of the evening meal. He was fasting, although 
it was the Clueen of Festivals — the first Easter he had ever ob- 
served. 

Looking forward to confession, and feeling pretty sure that 
under the circumstances Father O’Ryan would give him absolu- 
tion at once, he had entertained the innocent desire of making his 
first communion on that sacred day. The disappointment of both 
these expectations coming upon his academical disgrace, — con- 
spired, with the exhaustion of his bodily powers and the moral re- 
action after the somewhat exalted state through which he had 
passed, to produce an extreme depression. His very faith ap- 
peared to have left him. The sublime Hope on which his soul 
had fed, identified itself with the illusions of the imagination. 
Could his eyes have been opened he would have perceived a dark 
and formless Being walking by his side, triumphing that his power 
was not yet at an end, and that one more temptation was permit- 
ted him to which those of the world and the flesh were weak. 

85 


410 


ALBAN. 


Mrs. Hart met him in the hall with some letters which had 
arrived on Saturday, for Alban had lately taken a fancy to have 
his letters left at his boarding-house. By such a batch coming to 
hand at once, he divined a crisis, such as indeed he had reason 
to expect. As in duty bound he opened one from his father 
first. 


“New York, April 17 , 1835 . 

“ Dear Son, — Your mother and myself have been astonished 
at the communication just received from you. What you propose 
is an act of perfect lunacy. I can with difficulty realize that 
you are serious in it. I omit all reply to your long argument. I 
am astonished that the college faculty should not have informed 
me, when they knew that you were diverting your mind from your 
studies to these frivolous questions, which the whole world settled 
hundreds of years before you were born. You mentioned to me, 
before leaving home last vacation, that your mind was occupied 
in this manner, and I thought I then signified my wish with suffi- 
cient clearness, to the eflect that you would postpone such matters 
until you have completed your college course. Indeed, it would 
be far better never to take into consideration any subject which 
has no practical bearings. 

“ The recent rise in (which has very much surprised the 

rich ‘bears’) has realized the expectations which I had confidently 
formed, and I anticipate a still further improvement. Thinking 
you may be short, I inclose you a check for fifty dollars, which 
please acknowledge. 

“ The proposed change of religion would be decidedly injurious 
to you in a quarter to which I need only allude. I speak from per- 
sonal knowledge when I say that the opinion entertained of your 
sound judgment and liberal views, is .the ground of the approba- 
tion which has been given by her parents to the preferences of a 
certain young lady. 

Yr. aff. father, 

“ Sl. Atherton.” 


ALBAN. 


411 


The next letter was from his mother. 

“Grey Street, April 16, Thursday. 

“ My Dear Alban, — Your letter has plunged me into the 
deepest grief. Words, my beloved son, cannot express the feelings 
with which I have again and again perused it. Surely it is a 
transient bewilderment. You confess that you were for a time 
skeptical, then (singular and incomprehensible) almost a Jew ! 
These notions will also pass off if you give them time. 

“ What you say in condemnation of the religion of your 
sainted grandfather, your aunt Elizabeth, your cousin Rachel, 
(who is going on a mission,) — not to say of your own mother — is 
dreadful ! But you have not looked upon it in that light. When 
you do, you will repent, I am sure, of such thoughts as you seem 
to have had. It would break my heart, Alban, if I thought that 
you could really be given up to this awful delusion. 

“ Your father (although he has promised me to write you tem- 
perately) is very angry about your letter. He says that if you 
turn Papist or^Jew (for he cannot make out which it is you mean) 
he will never see you again. 

“ Before you were born it was my prayer, day and night, that 
(whatever else you were) you might be one of God’s true chil- 
dren ; and indeed I had hoped that my prayer was answered. 
Oh, Alban, I would rather have followed you to your grave than 
see you forsake the truth, and lose your soul ! 

“ Put away the books which have perverted your mind, my 
dearest son ; give up your proud reliance on your own talents, (ah, 
that is the great point,) and study your Bible with prayer to God 
for guidance — He will not fail to direct you. 

“ I have no heart to add more at present. If you will not 
take the counsels of those who are older and wiser than you, I 
foresee your ruin for this werld and the next, and for your parents 
nothing but shame and grief, where they have hitherto felt so 
proud and happy. 

“ Your affectionate mother, 

“ Grace Atherton. 


412 


ALBAN. 


“ P. S. I have just heard, from a reliable source, that Miss De 
G., who has no doubt influenced you more than you are aware, is 
herself not too well satisfied with the step so hastily taken in op- 
position to the known wishes of her parents. Oh, Alban, will 
you not be warned ?” 

These letters touched our hero deeply. Could any thing be so 
certain as the evil of outraging these kind affections — the prime 
religion of nature and basis of piety ? — A man's foes shall be they 
of his own household. He that loveth father or mother more 
than me is not wortlmj of me . — “ How true the prophecy ! How 
precise the warning !” thought Alban, as he broke the rich seal 
of a third letter. 


“ Fifth Avenue, Fer. 6 in Paraseeve. 

“ Dear Atherton : Addressing a new-blown votary of the 
Christianity of the Middle Ages, I can do no less than adopt an 
ecclesiastical date. Your father tells' me you are going to make a 
fool of yourself as Mary has done, but with infinitely less excuse. 

“ Speculate as you will, Atherton. Protestantism is a shallow 
thing, no doubt, but do not think that because there are truths 
which it cannot measure or fathom, its opposite must necessarily 
be truth without alloy. It is but a few months since you hesita- 
tated between Judaism and Episcopacy, and but a few more since 
you were a fervent Puritan. Now you regard these past states as 
blindness. Wait a few more months and you will deem the same 
of your present stage of development. I do not mean (as some 
vulgar people would) that you have gained nothing, but that you 
have something yet to gain. You are young, and although you 
have a wonderful head for your years, no genius can compensate 
altogether for the want of that grandest and most fruitful experi- 
ence whose domain is the inner world of reflection, — which time 
and self-study alone can give. 

“ I do not wish to appeal to any feeling or interest which you 
would regard as beneath the dignity of such a question. At the 


ALBAN. 


413 


same time I think it right to tell you that since she has looked 
upon you as a convert, Mary’s interest in you has sensibly dimin- 
ished. Her imagination is no longer excited about you, and that 
is a fatal incident to the love of a devotee. Mary thinks more of 
the cloister than of wedlock already, and if you were actually to 
join the Ronian Church at this premature stage of your friend- 
ship, I greatly fear that she might never arrive at that passion- 
point where maiden resolutions melt like snow before the fire. 

“ Win and wed my daughter first — then profess her faith. 
The world will then appreciate your change, which now will be 
assigned to an interested motive. 

“ Let me hear that you have chosen the wise course of post- 
poning an irrevocable step, at least until you can take it with 
dignity. 

“ Truly yours, 

“ E. De Groot. 

“ Alban Atherton, Esquire.” 

“ How sage and how confident he seems !” thought Alban. 
“ And Mary ! It would be strange if she ceased to love me, be- 
cause I had become actually a Catholic. And yet it would not 
be strange, for it is not like the ways of the Highest to bestow a 
rich earthly reward on those who leave all for His sake. I see 
how it will be. Flower of chastity ! My bosom is not pure 
enough on which thou shouldest repose ! He whose ‘ name is as 
oil poured forth,’ has attracted thy virgin steps.” 

A sudden faintness overcame Atherton ; the room swam 
around him ; he looked about for help, but Mrs. Hart was gone ; 
he rose and staggered to the sofa, on which he had just time to 
throw himself ere a darkness swept the room from his sight. 

He lay motionless, but not unconscious, till on that black 
depth', as in a mirror, a bright scene became gradually distinct. 

It was the interior of a beautiful chapel, the morning sun 
shining in at the high east window. A pure yet brilliant altar of 
white marble was crowned with a constellation of starry lights. 

' 35 * 


414 


ALBAN. 


A meek prelate in a rich robe stood before it ; the sides of the 
chapel were lined with black-robed nuns, each in her oaken stall, 
the snowy wimple covering her breast, the snowy hand across 
her temples. At the rail knelt two young females in pure white, 
one of w'hom was habited as a bride. 

Alban could hear no words ; but the brief and beautiful cere- 
mony of taking the white veil took place in dumb show in the 
small, brilliant chapel. He knew what it was, although he had 
never seen it. When the novice turned from the altar with the 
, plain veil of religion upon her head, in place of the rich bridal 
lace which had previously shrouded her, Atherton saw her features 
of incomparable loveliness : — they were those of Mary De Groot, 
and the bright vision gradually dissolved again till only her youth- 
ful form, still advancing towards him, remained visible. It ap- 
proached till it seemed that he could have touched her, and then 
vanished. 


ALBAN. 


415 


CHAPTER VII. 

The place to which Alban was rusticated, was a retired country 
village in the interior of Connecticut. Early on Monday morning 
he took stage for Hartford, the semi-capital of the little State, not 
content with one metropolis. From New Haven to Hartford was 
a day’s journey in those times, and in the early spring, a tedious 
one. The heavy and well-balanced vehicle went swinging and 
swaying through the mud, crawling up the hills, tearing down 
the declivities with a rocking and sweeping whirl that for the mo- 
ment stirred the blood and half took away the breath, then crept 
on as before. 

Atherton was too busy with his own brooding thoughts to heed 
much his fellow-travellers, or their conversation, which was slight 
and desultory. At noon they stopped for dinner, after which 
several new passengers were taken in ; the stage received its 
compliment of nine inside, and two with the driver. The new 
company w'ere more talkative. The recent events at New Ha- 
ven were discussed, and Alban heard his own name freely men- 
tioned. 

“ This young gentleman is a Yale student, I believe,” said 
one of the old passengers. 

“ Are you acquainted with the young man Atherton ?” asked 
a new passenger. 

“ I have some acquaintance with him,” said Alban, in the dry 
New England manner. 

“ Is he so talented as they say he is ?” inquired the new pas- 
senger. “ I heard that it puzzled the Doctors of Divinity to 
answer his objections.” 

“ There is generally exaggeration in these reports,” replied 
Atherton. 

“ Is it true that he let himself down the chimney into a young 


416 


ALBAN. 


lady’s chamber and hid himself under the bed till she had re- 
tired ?” 

“ No, not under the bed, but in the closet,” said a morning 
passenger, with an air of information. 

“ What a bad, impudent fellow he must be !” said a lady on 
the back seat. 

“ I never heard those circumstances mentioned,” said Alban. 

“ Oh, I assure you they are quite true,” said the morning pas- 
senger. “ I was told by a friend of Miss Hornheart herself — 

was not that the name ? Miss Hornheart was dreadfully shocked, 
as you may suppose, ladies,” (turning to the fair occupants of the 
back seat.) 

“ How old is Atherton ?” inquired one of the ladies, addressing 
Alban. 

“ I should say he was something past twenty, ma’am.” 

“ Young scapegrace !” ejaculated the afternoon passenger. 

“ He has been dreadfully dissipated without any one’s ever 
suspecting it,” said the morning passenger. 

“ Sly boots,” interposed the afternoon passenger, with a wink 
at the eldest of the ladies. 

“ And worse than dissipated — a very dangerous young man 
in a family.” 

“ Oh, really !” exclaimed the two elder ladies. 

“ Dear me I” softly breathed the youngest, with a blush. 

“ I think you rather calumniate Atherton, sir,” said Alban, 
coloring. “ I belong to the same class in college, and I certainly 
never heard any thing insinuated against his moral character.” 

“Oh !” cried the morning passenger, contemptuously, “I dare 
say you never heard any thing against him, young gentleman. 
Nobody had heard, till this came out. Sly boots ! as you were 
saying, sir,” (to the afternoon passenger.) 

The afternoon passenger was a tall, large-framed, and well- 
fleshed man, in a suit of rusty black, with a narrow white cravat ; 
quite evideirtly the minister of some Episcopal congregation in a 
rural district. He sat on the middle seat with his great, heavy 


ALBAN. 


417 


arm over the strap, and exchanged many httle courtesies with the 
ladies behind him. 

“ I should like to have a talk with this Popish classmate of 
yours,” said he, addressing Alban. “ He and I would agree on 
many points. For instance, the Roman Catholic Church has al- 
ways set its face against modern science. I like that,” turning to 
the rest of the company ; “ modern science is little better than 
dealing with the devil, after all. These great discoveries ! gifts 
of Satan all. Steam, Chemistry, Galvanism, and last but not 
least. Animal Magnetism !” 

“ Do you rank Animal Magnetism with acknowledged scien- 
tific facts ?” asked Alban. 

“ There is a girl here in Hartford at the present time,” replied 
the clergyman, with a keen look at the young student, “ a girl in 
the clairvoyant state, who can see through blankets, and tell you 
what is passing hundreds of miles off.” 

“ ’Tis true as the Gospel,” said a gentleman in the corner of 
the front seat, who had not before spoken. “ She sees all the in- 
terior organs in any one’s body, (that wishes it, of course,) and 
describes all their conditions, so that a physician by her aid can 
prescribe as exactly for any disease as if he could take you to 
pieces like a" watch. I have witnessed this myself.” 

“ For my part I should object to being seen through in that 
fashion,” exclaimed one of the ladies. 

” And I too,” said the second lady, who had a slight cough, 
“ though I should like to know if I have tubercles.” 

The young lady only blushed. 

“ The first time that the Mesmerist made this clairvoyant 
girl see the inside of a human body — with the heart beating, the 
blood rushing through the great arteries, the lymph circulating, 
and so on — she was terribly frightened,” said the stranger who 
had last spoken. “ Now she is used to it, and thinks nothing of 
examining any body that the operator requires.” 

“ But where is the evidence that her seeing these things is 
not all pretence ?” asked Alban, skeptically. 


U8 


ALBAN. 


“ Of course you must take her testimony as part proof,” said 
the stranger, “but_if you have sufficient evidence of her preter- 
natural sight in many incontestable instances, you cannot refuse 
to believe.” 

“ I will tell you what happened to myself,” said the Episcopal 
clergyman. 

All expressed a desire to hear the clergyman’s story. 

“ I visited this clairvoyante with a determination to test the 
genuineness of her pretensions. She was not in the mesmeric 
state when I arrived at the house, but the operator, a medical 
man, called her in, and she consented, not without some difficulty, 
to be mesmerized in my presence. It seemed that she had been 
under this physician’s care for a nervous disease, for which he had 
been induced to try mesmerism as a remedy. I dare say you are 
all familiar, gentlemen, with the process of mesmerizing — the 
thumbing, the passes, the flourishes, and all that. In about fifteen 
minutes the effect Avas produced. In the earlier period of the ex- 
periments on this girl it had taken sometimes two or three hours 
to accomplish a like result. She seemed to be in a natural sleep, 
paying no attention to any thing I said, although she readily an- 
swered the questions of the mesmerizer. Well, not to be tedious, 
after showing some of the common tricks of mesmerism, he placed 
the girl, at my request, in rapport Avith myself.” Here the nar- 
rator pulled out his Avatch. “ You observe, ladies and gentlemen, 
that mine is what is called a hunter’s watch, with the outside case 
entirely closed, so that it is necessary to touch a spring (thus) and 
make the face-side fly open in order to tell the hour. I had taken 
the precaution before entering the house to set the hands about 
six hours and a half in advance. The girl’s eyes Avere at this time 
closely bandaged, with a strong silk handkerchief over some six or 
seven thicknesses of common linen roller. I stood behind her and 
asked, ‘ What is this I have in my hand, Eliza ?’ ‘ It is a watch,’ 
she replied. ‘ And what time is it by my Avatch ?’ She hesitated 
before ansAvering, somewhat impatiently, I thought, ‘ How can I 
tell ?’ — ‘ Nay,’ said I, ‘ if you can see through a blanket, and all 


ALBAN. 


419 


those bandages, and the back of your head, you can surely see 
through a plain silver case. Is it harder to see the inside of a 
watch than the inside of a body V ‘ The case dazzles my eyes,’ 
she answered, putting her hand before them. All this while 
I held the watch directly at the back of her head, and in such a 
position that the doctor — the Mesmerizer — could not see it. I 
touched the spring. ‘ Can you tell me now what time it is.’ — 
* Yes,’ she answered, removing her hand from her bandaged eyes, 
‘ it wants a — quarter to ten.’ I glanced at the doctor, whose face 
wore an expression of slight disappointment, for the real time was 
about a quarter past three, p.m. ; but I relieved him by showing 
the hands of rny watch, which indicated just sixteen minutes to 
ten. The minute hand was a mere line past the sixteen. ‘ Does 
it want just a quarter ?’ I asked. ‘ Well,’ she replied, pettishly, ‘ it 
tvill, in less than a minute.’ For my part, ladies and gentlemen,” 
concluded the clergyman, “ I was thunderstruck.” 

“ And was that all ?” inquired Alban. 

“ Oh, by no means. I tried her with a short sentence, which 
I had previously written on a slip of paper and inclosed- in a brown 
paper envelope. She read it with facility, altering only a word.” 
The clergyman paused. “ I tried her with some other experi- 
ments in which she failed partially or entirely, and the Mesmer- 
izer remarked that all the circumstances on which the perfection 
of the clairvoyant state depended were not known, and it was 
probable that these mistakes, which perpetually occurred amid 
things alike wonderful and inexplicable, were due to some violated 
condition, or decline, or oscillation of the mesmeric extasy, as he 
termed it. In conclusion, however, after, at my request, he had 
renewed the passes, and placed me once more in the most intimate 
rapj>ort with the girl that he was able, I asked her some questions 
relative to a room which I had privately prepared in my own 
house, before setting out for Hartford. The distance is about fifty 
miles, and no one, I am certain, was in the secret of these ar- 
rangements but myself. Her answers I cannot divulge,” said the 
clergyman, with a dark shade passing suddenly over his counte- 


420 


ALBAN. 


nance, “ but they satisfied me of the existence of a power beyond 
my comprehension, and previously, beyond my belief. Suffice it, 
that she not only described the most secret arrangements which I 
alone had made in my own parsonage, but revealed to me also 
circumstances which were occurring in my absence, of which other- 
wise I should have had no knowledge whatever.” 

“ In time we shall arrive at more wonderful things,” observed 
the stranger in the corner seat. “ Or rather, all miracles will be 
explained by some very simple principle. A few passes, you ob- 
serve, sir, effected that extraordinary phenomenon which you wit- 
nessed in the mesmerized girl. By and by we shall learn to cure 
diseases with a touch. In fact, it is not more wonderful than that 
they should noAV be cured by some simple herbs.” 

“ And what do you think of it, young gentleman ?” said the 
clergyman, addressing Atherton. 

“ Why, sir, it appears on your own showing, that you have had 
dealings with Satan,” replied Alban, gravely. 

“ Pshaw !” said the stranger in the corner seat, “ there is no 
such person as Satan.” 

The evening lights already sparkled in the windows when the 
stage rattled into Hartford. At the tea-table of the hotel the con- 
versation was renewed upon Mesmerism, demoniacal possessions, 
and the forbidden arts. The stranger believed in magic, which he • 
maintained was only the coxlsummation of science. Matter, in 
itself nothing, was meant to be subject to the human will as a 
slave to a master. He thought that the world was on the eve 
of great discoveries, before which the barriers which separated us 
from the unseen would fall. His conversation breathed an intense 
desire to penetrate the profoundest seci’ets of nature and of time, 
and Alban, as he listened, could with difficulty withstand the con- 
tagious influence of these daring aspirations. 


ALBAN. 


421 


CHAPTER VIII. 

In the northeast part of Connecticut, among the hills where the 
Yantic takes its rise, extends a bleak, almost woodless table-land, 
of some miles in length by about one and a half in breadth. It 
is not destitute of farm-houses, and a great road passes through 
the middle of it, which, for one reach of about a mile, expands 
into a wide common, where the housen (this old Saxon plural is 
still used in New England) are more frequent, and form the strag- 
gling village of Carmel. 

At either extremity of this common rises a steepled meeting- 
house ; for the old Congregationalists have split m Carmel, and 
the new school have raised a rival house of worship, at the dis- 
tance of a mile from their neighbors. On the road-side, nearly 
equidistant from the two meeting-houses, stands an old, white, 
pillared mansion, with fine old button-balls planted in a long 
line before it, and a garden in the rear ; meadows and orchards 
on either side. The house formerly belonged to a great family in 
the State, and one to which our hero was nearly allied ; but it 
had passed out of the name, and at this time was the parsonage, 
or rather the residence of the old school minister. This gentle- 
man eked out his pastoral income by pupils, and was willing to 
receive, now and then, a rusticated student from his ahna mater. 

The stage-coach drew up, by a gray sunset, before the Rev. 
Dr. Cone’s. The driver took off Alban’s trunk, and set it down 
for him in the long piazza. The Rev. Dr. Cone himself came 
out to greet the new-comer. He was a man past the middle age, 
of a grave and dignified aspect. 

“ President ,” said Alban, offering a letter, “ assured me 

that this would procure me the pleasure of pursuing my studies 
for a few months, under your roof. Dr. Cone.” 

“ I understand,” said Dr. Cone, balancing the letter vacantly 

86 


422 


ALBAN. 


in one hand. “ Walk in, Mr. Atherton” — glancing at the name 
written in the corner. “ You have come to a queer place, but 
you are welcome, sir.” 

A hall of small dimensions, with a square balustraded stair- 
case, opened on one side into a spacious parlor, sparely but hand- 
somely furnished. The chairs were high-hacked, solid, and heavy ; 
a large wood-fire burned on the ample hearth. The room con- 
tained a piano, at which a little girl was sitting. She turned her 
head as the door opened, and Alban saw a sparkling brunette, 
with the wildest black eyes, and a shower of jetty ringlets falling 
on bare, slight shoulders. 

“ Ah !” said Alban’s future host, and withdrew from the room 
which he had half entered. “ Perhaps you had better walk into 
my study,” said he, addressing Alban, and with the word went to 
an opposite door. 

The study was lined with rude book-shelves, but well laden. 
Here, too, was a wood-fire, but burning in an old Franklin. A 
school-desk ran along the front windows, with a bench. But 
there was no one in the study, and the doctor, pointing Atherton 
to a seat by the Franklin, assumed what was evidently his own 
study chair. 

“ With your permission, doctor, I will lay aside my cloak,” 
said Atherton, for the room was very warm. 

“ Certainly, certainly, sir,” said the doctor, abstractedly. 

Atherton threw oft' both his cloak and overcoat, and Dr. Cone 
regarded him curiously, glancing from him to the letter of intro- 
duction, wlrich was still unopened. ^ 

“ Perhaps I have mistaken — the nature of the aft'air,” said the 
doctor, slowly breaking the seal of the letter, and looking at the 
young man with surprise. “ I was under the impression — ” 

Here Alban was startled by his host’s apparently chucking the 
open, but unread letter of the President into the fire. It was in 
flames in an instant. The doctor made a sort of effort to recover 
it, but it was consumed before he could seize it. He drew from the 
Franklin only a bit of blackened cinder, that quickly fell into ashes. 


ALBAN. 


423 


" Hem ! disagreeable these things are,” said Dr. Cone, in a 
low voice. 

“ Surely, then,” thought Alban, “ you might have been more 
careful.” 

The doctor looked so embarrassed at the destruction of the 
letter that our hero felt the position of culprit, in which he had 
entered the house, entirely reversed. While he was reflecting 
how far he was bound, or even authorized, to supply the informa- 
tion which the burned epistle had doubtless contained, the door 
of an inner apartment opened, and a plump, well-looking dame 
of forty entered the study. She stared slightly at Alban, and 
looked at the doctor. 

“ This is Mr. Atherton, my dear, (Mrs. Cone, Mr. Atherton,) 
from Yale College, who has come to pursue his studies, (did you 
not say so, sir ?) for a few months, at Carmel.” 

“ Mr. Atherton ?” said Mrs. Cone, courteously. “ It is not 
the son of Mr. Samuel Atherton, of New York, surely ! Indeed ! 
What, Alban Atherton ! I am very glad to see you, sir. Why I 
have known your mother ever since I can remember. Mr. Ath- 
erton is a grandson of General Atherton of Yanmouth, my dear. 
Little Alban ! Why I have had you in my arms a thousand 
times !” 

Mrs. Cone poured out a flood of questions relative to his 
parents. She had heard of his being at college, and distinguishing 
himself greatly. A mother could hardly have greeted him with 
more warmth. 

“ And what is it brings you to Carmel, Alban ? You have 
not been rusticated, I take for granted,” said Mrs. Cone, laughing. 

“ Unfortunately, I have,” replied Alban, with a slight blush. 

“ Why, what have you been doing to merit such a sentence ?” 
demanded Mrs. Cone, with some surprise. 

“ The President wrote a letter to Dr. Cone, informing him of 
my offence,” answered Atherton, with embarrassment. 

“ Where is it, husband ?” said Mrs. Cone, imperiously. 

“ It is burned,” replied her husband, meekly. 


424 


ALBAN . 


“ Burned !” exclaimed the lady. 

Her husband glanced significantly at the young man. 

“ How provoking,” she added in a low tone, and with a sud- 
den change of countenance. “ I am really wearied at these 
annoying occurrences. I shall quit this house soon, that is cer- 
tain !” 

In uttering these ejaculatory sentences, which considerably 
mystified Alban, the lady seemed to have forgotten her curiosity 
in regard to the cause of his rustication. She abruptly asked 
how long he would stay with them, and where his trunk was ; 
then saying that she must give directions to get a room ready 
for him, quitted the study, with a disturbed air. 

In a few minutes she called to him from the hall. He found 
a couple of healthy-looking Irish lasses carrying his trunk up stairs, 
at her bidding. 

“ I fear it is too heavy for them to carry,” said Alban, observ- 
ing that the girls panted under the weight. 

“ Oh, never fear,” said one, “ this” — pointing significantly at 
the other — “ is a strong girl.” 

“ There’s them in the house ’od take it up a dale asier,” 
replied her companion, as they rested on the landing, “ if they 
could hut turn a hand to any thing useful.” 

“ Hold your tongue, Bridget,” said Mrs. Cone. 

They got the trunk at last into a comfortable chamber, and 
Mrs. Cone dismissed her handmaidens. When they were gone 
she turned to Alban with an air of authority. 

“ Now, Alban — I must call you Alban, for you seem quite like 
my own child — I knew your aunt Betsey so well, and your 
mother, too, at Yanrnouth, when I was a girl — and a wild thing 
as ever breathed — and you a delicate little boy — how you have 
grown ! I am very proud of your college distinctions, your prizes, 
and being President of the Brothers’ Society — they say that you 
are the best writer of your class — but what is the cause of your 
having been rusticated ?” 

“ According to the best of my knowledge and belief, Mrs. 


ALBAN. 


425 


Cone, the real cause why I have been sent here is that I have 
become a Roman Catholic.” 

“ A what ?” 

“ A Roman Catholic,” said Alban, smiling at Mrs. Cone’s 
blank consternation. 

“ I have a great mind to box your ears,” said Mrs. Cone. 
“ Why what do you mean ? Your grandfather’s grandson a 
Roman Catholic ! Don’t talk such nonsense to me, Alban ! 
What have you been doing at New Haven that they sent you 
here ? Come, I love you for your aunt Betsey’s sake, and your 
mother’s, too. Tell me the truth.” 

It was with difficulty that Alban could make Mrs. Cone com- 
prehend the truth, no part of which he concealed from her. In 
the course of his narration, the conviction, however, gradually 
dawned upon her mind that the young man was, at least, not 
sporting with her credulity. She was ready to overwhelm him 
with arguments, but luckily the bell rang for tea. 

“ Hurry down to tea,” said Mrs. Cone, leaving him, “ and let 
me charge you not to breathe a syllable of this to my husband, 
nor to any one else in the house. I have my reasons, which per- 
haps will appear in due season.” 

36 * 


426 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER IX. 

The tea-table was set (it is the New England fashion in country 
districts) in an ample and well-kept kitchen. On the side of the 
table opposite Alban sat three hearty boys, from twelve to fifteen 
years of age, Dr. Cone’s private pupils; next to himself was a lady to 
whom he was introduced by Mrs. Cone as her sister. Her name 
was Fay, and the party M'as completed by the black-eyed little 
girl of whom Alban had caught a glimpse at the piano, and whom 
Mrs Cone named, “ my niece. Miss Rosamond Fay.” Mrs. Fay 
was pale, and of an extremely delicate appearance ; she coughed 
frequently and with singular violence ; but when Alban turned 
to ofier her some civility, he perceived that her features were emi- 
nently beautiful. Her eyes were the brightest and most finely 
set he had almost ever seen. Her voice, too, was soft and plain- 
tive as a dove’s. 

The two Irish lasses, one of them blooming and luxuriantly 
made, the other darker, plainer, and a trifle stouter, remained in 
the background during the meal. It passed nearly in silence. 
Dr. Cone indeed attempted to put a courteous question or two to 
his new-arrived guest, when one of the boys opposite, as Alban 
thought, commenced kicking violently under the solid mahogany 
table. To his great surprise, neither Dr. Cone nor his wife took 
any notice of this indecorum, although the latter frequently re- 
proved one or other of the lads for some trivial impropriety. 

“ Sit up, 'William ! Charles !” in atone of grave remonstrance, 
“ is that the way in which a young gentleman should help him- 
self? Certainly, use a spoon for your honey.” — Here there was 
another kick under the table, so violent that Alban wondered the 
tea-things did not rattle, and Mrs. Cone became silent, while the 
boys grinned, and little Rosamond Fay but half suppressed a 
laugh. 


ALBAN. 


427 


Immediately after tea, family prayers were attended in the 
same apartment. Dr. Cone read a chapter from the Epistle to 
the Romans, accompanying it with a short exposition. Then 
Rosamond Fay, at a sign from her mother, went into the next 
room, where, on the doctor’s giving out the evening hymn, she 
played a well-known tune on the piano, and the whole family 
joined in singing it with a very sweet effect. Alban took notice 
that the prettier of the two Irish girls, whom Mrs. Cone called 
Harriet, sung with a clear voice, but her less attractive companion, 
whose name was Bridget, did not sing, and sat with folded arms 
and downcast eyes. Harriet had rich, pouting lips, ripe and invi- 
ting as cherries ; Bridget’s mouth was of a different character quite ; 
it possessed a chaste sweetness not unfamiliar to Alban, and which 
diffused a charm over her plain physiognomy. As soon as the 
hymn was finished, the family threw themselves on their knees, 
and the young Rosamond gliding in from the parlor, knelt by her 
mother’s side. Alban, on the contrary, unwilling any longer to 
join, even in appearance, in Protestant worship, took the opportu- 
nity of the noise this general change of position occasioned, to 
escape into the room which the young girl had quitted. Seating 
himself by the parlor fire, he could listen to Dr. Cone’s prayer. 

Suddenly, in the midst of it, while the good minister was 
praying, as our hero thought, with unusual earnestness for pro- 
tection during the night, particularly from the malice of demons 
and the assaults of evil spirits, there was a scream in the kitchen, 
followed by a crash of porcelain and a heavy fall. Alban sprang 
to the open door ; the tea-things were half off' the table ; some 
broken cups and plates strewed the floor, and Mrs. Cone was en- 
deavoring to save others which were just on the point of falling. 
Dr. Cone concluded his prayer rather abruptly, and the family 
sprang to their feet with a variety of exclamations. 

“ I told you that you had come to a strange house, Mr. Ather- 
ton,” said Dr. Cone, passing his hand over his forehead, and 
drawing a deep sigh. 

“ Oh, look what they have done in the parlor !” cried little 


428 


ALBAN. 


Rosamond Fay, and Alban, turning, beheld, to his astonishment, 
all the heavy chairs in the room behind him piled one on another, 
nearly to the ceiling, the stool of the piano bemg perched on top 
of all. 

“ Who are they Alban innocently demanded of the child. 

“ The Spirits !” 

“ My daughter !” said Mrs. Fay, reprovingly. 

For the little witch clapped her hands with glee. 

It seemed, indeed, that the devil was really in the house. The 
tea-table was again lifted up at one end, sending some half-dozen 
more cups and plates upon the floor with a crash ; the pretty Har- 
riet, while picking them up, screamed, and cried out that some 
one pinched her ; Bridget fell on her knees and began to call upon 
the Virgin and Saints for help, and in the midst of all, a noise 
like some heavy body rolling down stairs was heard in the front 
entry or hall, the door leading from which into the parlor was 
suddenly burst open with violence, and Alban’s trunk hurled into 
the room as if from a battering-ram. The hasp of the lock 
snapped with the violence of the concussion, the lid flew open, and 
with another turn the entire contents of the trunk, consisting of 
books and clothes, were scattered over the carpet. 

Alban flew out of the room, and up the stairs, but in a few 
minutes returned with an aspect of blank astonishment. He 
had found the outer door of the hall bolted on the inside, and 
every thing in the story above quiet and orderly as a sepul- 
chre. 

The loud and deafening raps now recommenced below, and 
from several quarters at once, on the table, on the floor, the walls, 
the doors. Some were feebler than others, and they were repeated 
at longer or shorter intervals, and the family listened in silence ; 
Dr. Cone and the females were pale, and even the children began 
to look frightened. The youngest boy sobbed, and having seized 
Alban’s hand, held it with a convulsive force. Little Rosamond 
alone, although excited to the last degree, and clinging to her 
mother for protection, showed more curiosity than fear. And all 


ALBAN. 


42'J 

at once she approached Alban and the little boy who still grasped 
his hand, and whom our hero had taken upon his knee. 

“ What is the matter with your clothes, Eddy ?” she said. She 
touched the little fellow, but instantly drew back screaming, and 
ran away, covering her eyes with both hands. 

The boy’s garments were cut in strips from head to foot. 


430 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER X. 

/ 

It was midnight. Alban and Dr, Cone kept a sort of vigil over 
the kitchen fire. 

“ It is a month since we began to he persecuted in this way,” 
said the Doctor. “ At first I fancied that the boys were at the 
bottom of it. Then I suspected the servants of complicity, and 
that men were concealed in the house. Very soon, however, 
things came to such a pass as to preclude every hypothesis of nat- 
ural, human agency. You have seen nothing yet ! My books have 
been flung into the fire before my eyes by invisible hands, and 
with difficulty saved. A good deal of property has been destroyed, 
particularly clothing, as you saw that little boy’s jacket and trow- 
sers to-night cut into ribbons. Mrs. Fay and Mrs. Cone have had 
their bonnets secreted, (usually it was discovered, just as they 
were going to meeting,) and when found, it was behind some 
heavy furniture, crushed, and completely ruined.” 

“ Human agency might have done this,” observed Alban. 

“ True, and the suspicions of the ladies fell upon Bridget, our 
Catholic girl. They thought she might have done it to prevent 
their going to church.” 

“ Why not as well suspect Harriet — or is she a Protestant ?” 
asked Alban, 

“ She is, and has been one of the greatest sufferers all along. 
Her clothes are spirited away, and found, half-destroyed, in some 
out-of-the-way place. And the girl has been pinched (the ladies 
say) black and blue.” ' 

“ Pinching the maids ! It is the old trick attributed to the 
fairies,” observed Alban. “ What is Harriet’s character !” 

“ She is such as you see her : a pretty girl !” said the Doctor 
grimly. “ She would have left us if I had not promised to make 
good her losses, Of course it would be very disagreeable to engage 


ALBAN. 


431 


new servants under these circumstances, and difficult too. Bridget 
was frantic for going, at first, but her priest, whom, at my in- 
stance, she went some thirty miles to consult, advised her to stay. 
She was the first to say they were spirits, and then we all laughed 
at her superstition.” 

“ And suspicion fell upon her,'' said Alban, with a grave smile. 
“It is the only thing like a motive, that I have discovered yet, sir, 
in the acts of petty mischief which you relate, or which I have wit- 
nessed.” 

“ At times,” observed the doctor, looking round apprehensively, 
and lowering his voice, “ I doubt there may he a motive, even for 
what looks like mere wantonness.” 

“ And that is, sir ?” 

“ The desire to communicate with the living,” whispered the 
doctor.. 

Rap, rap, rap ; rap, rap ; rap, rap : — the whole kitchen re- 
sounded ! Even Alban turned pale. The cold sweat stood on Dr. 
Cone’s forehead. 

“ The petty, hut irritating injuries inflicted seem to proceed, if 
I may venture to say it,” proceeded the doctor, still lowering his 
voice, “ from impatience that we cannot or will not understand 
them.” 

Rap, rap ; rap, rap. 

“ Do you hear ? It is an answer.” 

“ Have you ever communicated with them in this way be- 
fore ?” asked Alban, rather solemnly, and giving the minister a 
piercing glance. 

“ Occasionally at night, after the family have retired,” re- 
plied his host trembling. “ I sometimes fear that I have done 
wrong.” 

There was a crash, simultaneous with the last word. Both 
looked round startled. A pane of glass had been broken. Yet the 
outside shutters were all fast closed. 

“ It is written,” said Alban in a firm tone — “ ’tis but last 
night that a peculiar conversation led me to examine the passage 


432 


ALBAN. 


— ‘ Neither let there be found among you any one that consulteth 
soothsayers, or observeth dreams and omens, neither let there be 
any wizard, nor charmer, or that consulteth pythonic spirits, or 
that seeketh the truth from the dead.' " 

There was a faint scream — faint and peculiar : Alban had 
never heard aught like it. 

“ Had you never a dream to which you could not refuse cre- 
dence ?” asked his companion, unheedful of this strange sound. 
“ Knew you never a dream exactly fulfilled ?” 

“ I must answer both questions in the affirmative,” replied 
Alban with emotion, “ but one of those dreams, I had reason to 
suppose, came from above, and the other I yet doubt.” 

Both were now extremely startled to observe all at once, that 
chairs had been placed on either side of them, so as to form 
with those which themselves occupied, a complete semicircle 
around the ample fireplace. Alban’s blood firoze in his veins at 
the sight (if one could say so) of this awful session of viewless 
beings, prepared to participate in their midnight colloquy. 

“ They wish to converse with us,” said the minister, with a 
sudden energy, and pressing Alban’s arm. “ Let us gratify them. 
I have thought of a way, if you have no objection. It is by call- 
ing out the letters of the alphabet. When they rap at a letter, 
you shall write it down, and so we can spell out word by word 
into a regular sentence.” 

An intense curiosity, despite his fears and scruples, overcame 
Atherton. The host, with wild eyes, extended to him some tablets 
and a pencil, which he hesitatingly received. 

“ I have no doubt but they can inform us respecting the 
future world and its employments” — (rap, rap, rap, on the floor 
at their feet) — “ the state of the soul after death — (rap, rap.) — 
“ Do you hear.” 

A heavy step was heard on the kitchen stairs, some one slowly 
descending. After a minute of expectation they were interrupted 
by the entrance of the girl Bridget, with a shawl thrown over her 
half-bare shoulders, and a large ruffled cap, as if she had hastily 


ALBAN. 


433 


risen from bed. She looked frightened, and her great, black beads 
were clasped in her hands. 

“ What do you want ?” asked her master, roughly. “ Have 
you no more sense of decency than to come down in that garb 
at this hour of the night, while there are young gentlemen in the 
house ?” 

“ Och, indeed, sir, and I big a thousand pardons for cornin’ 
down, but surely I dramed them spirits was a murthering this 
young gentleman, and it was on my mind, sir, to ask you to step 
to his room (bein’ I couldn’t) and see if all was right.” 

A sharp reproof evidently hovered on her master’s lips, but 
Atherton interposed. 

“ Thank you, Bridget. You see I am safe. The Blessed Virgin 
will protect me, you know.” 

“ Indeed, sir, and that’s true, if you have light and grace to 
ask her. But maybe you’d condescend to put these beads round 
your neck for to-night. They are the beads of St. Bridget that 1 
brought from ould Ireland, and there’s a hundred days’ indulgence 
for every one that slips through your fingers. No harm ’d come 
near you, sir, w'ith it round your neck, and I am safe with the scap- 
ular, sir, let alone that I said the third part of the rosary before I 
laid me down.” 

“ Thank you, Bridget — thank you kindly. Keep your rosary, 
and pray for me.” — He kissed the small metal crucifix attached to 
the bead-string, and returned it to her, with a smile peculiar to 
Atherton. 

The girl retired, not without offering the beads once more. 

“ You are a humorist, I perceive, Mr. Atherton,” observed Dr. 
Cone, when the girl had disappeared. “ 1 question, however,” he 
added, somewhat gravely, “ whether it is right to countenance 
such superstitions, even in jest.” 

“ You had better put that question to the spirits, doctor,” 
replied Alban, rising. “ And, by the by, if you will excuse me, 
sir, I will retire.” 

The kitchen was now quiet. Q,uiet was the hall and his 

27 


434 


ALBAN. 


own chamber. But as he w'as entering the last, the door of Mrs. 
Fay’s room, which was just opposite, opened with some fracas, and 
Mrs. Fay appeared with a candle in her hand. She attempted 
to shut the door instantly that she saw Atherton, but some obsta- 
cle prevented its closing, and while she quickly stooped down to 
remove it, he caught almost involuntarily a glimpse of the interior 
of the chamber. 

The fair occupant had been writing ; for a table, with an 
additional candle, some writing implements, and an unfinished 
letter upon it, was drawn close to the fire. The bed was directly 
over against the door, and little Rosamond, who had apparently 
just started up, was hiding herself again under the bed-clothes. 
The object which had prevented the door from closing was an 
inkstand, and Alban perceived large and numerous stains of ink 
on the tasteful white wrapper of the beautiful Mrs. Fay. 


ALBAN. 


435 


CHAPTER XI. 

The season advanced, and even the dreary table-land of Carmel 
assumed somewhat of the smiling aspect of early summer. The 
great button-balls, lining the road before Dr. Cone’s house, w'^ere 
covered w’ith delicate green leaves, and spread a checkered shade 
on the old front piazza. The orchards were white and pink with 
apple blossoms ; the garden was gay with those of the cherry 
trees and hardy plums. The cool air that blew from the hills 
over the plain, carried their fragrance on its wings. Still the 
indoor fires glowed night and morning, and only slumbered in 
white embers during the warmer hours of raid-day. 

The singular visitation by which the old mansion-house was 
haunted had not ceased. Sometimes, indeed, perfect quiet would 
reign for a week, so far as any supernatural disturbance \tas con- 
cerned ; then the mysterious agency would break forth in mani- 
festations of greater violence than ever. As time w'ent on the 
character of these singular phenomena changed. A great deal 
of petty mischief continued to be done, nearly exhausting the 
patience of every one except quiet Dr. Cone, and the ever elastic 
Rosamond Fay. It was wonderful how patient Dr. Cone was, 
although he suffered considerably in his property, and something 
more in the reputation of his family. They kept it secret as 
much as they could, but events so marvellous could not be pre- 
vented from transpiring. Hundreds of persons came to see the 
operation of the “ spirits,” and although the family resisted such 
applications wherever they could, and both Dr. and Mrs. Cone 
assured their visitors that the stories which they had heard were 
exaggerated, and that some natural method would probably yet be 
discovered to account for what at present seemed inexplicable, the 
idea gained ground that it was the work of the devil. 

But within the family itself a system of communication with 


436 


ALBAN. 


these unseen agents of mischief, was now quite established. It 
was ascertained, for example, that a request to them, couched in 
civil terms, would procure at least the temporary cessation of any 
peculiarly vexatious demonstration. The method of interpreting 
the rappings, suggested by Dr. Cone to Alban, the former did not 
venture publicly to adopt, for nearly all the adult members of the 
family were of the opinion that it would be criminal to hold such 
an intercourse with beings who could only belong to the infernal 
hosts. 

“ They can only be ‘ spirits in prison,’ ” observed Alban ; “ for 
angels and good spirits, if permitted at all to hold communication 
with the living, would not be restricted to such imperfect methods. 
These attempts to hold parley by inarticulate noises and acts of 
mischief, prove restraint. These beings might and would do 
more if they were permitted, or if they dared.” 

“ Good beings would not do mischief at all,” said Mrs. Cone. 

The justice of our hero’s reasoning was soon made apparent 
by a freer communication suddenly taking place. Books were 
found lying open with paper marks adhering to significant passa- 
ges. The Bible was much used in this manner. A large family 
copy which lay on a reading stand, would fly open spontaneously 
in the midst of a conversation, and at some wonderfully apt text 
would be found a narrow slip of paper, sticking as fast as if it had 
been glued, yet apparently by mere atmospheric pressure. Some- 
times the texts selected were expressive of pious and appropriate 
sentiments, such as the hope of the resurrection, the reality of a 
future state of rewards and punishments, and so on ; at others 
the passages marked were among those which, particularly as 
found in the common Protestant translation, are by no means suit- 
able for indiscriminate perusal, and which caused the females to 
retire from the book with a blush. 

The communion season of Dr. Cone’s Church was now ap- 
proaching. They had it once in two months, and some of the 
family remembered that the last occasion had been marked by 
peculiar outrages, bearing more the impress of malignity than any 


t 


ALBAN. 


437 


which had occurred before or since. In all instances of this kind 
it was remarked that one or two individuals were the speeial ob- 
jects of attack. The pretty Harriet, and Eddy, the youngest of 
Dr. Cone’s pupils, have been already mentioned ; but there was a 
boy employed by the minister about his stable, the sou of one of 
his poorer neighbors, who could not enter the house without some 
strange missile being hurled at him, and he averred (but Mrs- 
Cone declared it was only his imagination) that he felt himself 
dragged towards the well, whenever he accidentally approached 
it, as if some one were endeavoring to throw him in. He was 
certain that when sent to fetch wood be was frequently hurt by 
the fall of large fagots ; and once a tall wood-pile suddenly pre- 
cipitated itself upon him as he was filling a basket for the Frank- 
lin. It was a miracle that he was not killed, and the lad made 
it an excuse for fetching no more. It was a half-simple lad, was 
Jake, and some of the stories which he told of his persecutions 
were too marvellous for belief. Harriet said that Jake pulled 
down the woodpile upon himself, and that for her part she was 
more afraid of him than of the spirits. Like many beings of that 
unhappy class, Jake’s animal propensities were more fully devel- 
oped than his mental powers, and if ugliness could provoke the 
malice of demons, his ungainly slimness and satyr-like counte- 
nance would account for their hostility. 

The sacrament Sunday at Carmel happened to synchronize 
with a festival of the Church, on which Episcopalians also usually 
celebrate the rite of communion, and Mrs. Fay being a pious mem- 
ber of that denomination, proposed to go down to Yantic Falls 
to receive on this occasion, because there was an Episcopal 
church there. The distance was not more than ten miles ; Dr. 
Cone lent his gig, and Alban had offered to drive. All that week 
the disturbance in the house was nearly unremitting. The 
knockings were incessant, day and night ; the furniture was 
thrown about remorselessly, panes of glass were broken daily, 
clothes and books were burned ; a bed was found in a blaze at 
noonday, and the flames with difiiculty were extinguished ; Har- 

37 * 




438 


ALBAN. 


riet was wounded in the cheek by a pitcher, and a new dress 
which she had purchased at Yantic was missing from her chest, 
and not to be found on the strictest search. But what was more 
alarming, Eddy was taken with fits of screaming every evening. 
Dr. Cone punished him in vain. Mrs. Fay’s delicate health suf- 
fered from the incessant nervous agitation which all this produced, 
besides that she had her private troubles which she concealed as 
much as she could. Little Rosamond told Alban that her mother 
was visited by the spirits every night. It was singular that the 
most earnest and polite requests for a cessation of the infliction, 
had no longer any effect. Mrs. Cone would sometimes fly into a 
passion and abuse the unseen mischief-workers, but that only 
procured an increase of annoyance. 

“I would leave the house, Mr. Atherton, were it in my pow- 
er,” said Mrs. Fay, on Saturday afternoon. 

They were walking in the piazza, arm in arm, for Alban had 
become a favorite with the invalid. As they passed the parlor 
window there was a crash ; a dark object shot swiftly by, and 
fell upon the grass of the court-yard. The window pane showed 
only a round hole as lai'ge as a grape-shot ; the dark object was 
a common poker. The force necessary to effect a passage through 
the glass without producing a larger fracture, was at least equal to 
that of a well-charged rifle. There was no one in the parlor. 

“ If I could only get a peaceful night before going to com- 
munion to-morrow,” said Mrs. Fay, in a sweet, but despairing 
tone. 

“ You have never tried the experiment of asking them to 
desist,” observed Alban. 

“ Never yet, but I really think I must try it. Lately it has 
not succeeded so well.” 

“ I object to it on principle,” responded Alban. “The favors 
of the devil, or of spirits malicious and lost to goodness, are more 
to be dreaded than their hostility, which after all is controlled by 
a higher poM^er. They can do nothing but what is permitted 
them, as they have repeatedly confessed.” 


ALBAN. 


439 


“ Yet if I could gain a tranquil evening and an undisturbed 
night before communion,” urged Mrs. Fay. “ Really I feel that 
I must. If that boy’s screams should be renewed to-night, I think 
I shall go distracted. Besides, Mr. Atherton, they knock upon 
my head-board at night.” 

“ Do they really ?” 

” I have fancied it was Rosamond, you know, and then, as if 
they read my thoughts, it would occur when her little arms and 
limbs were fast imprisoned in mine — oh ! it is beyond endurance. 
And such temptations as are suggested to my mind in order to 
escape. You are never troubled in your own room, Mr. Atherton?” 

“ Never.” 

” Is it because you are so good, or because you are so bad ? I 
have thought at times that if I would do some wicked thing they 
would let me alone.” 

” If you wdll be patient under it till to-morrow,” said Alban, 
“ as we ride down to Yantic, I will explain to you a way by 
which I think you may be exempt from future annoyance.” 

“ You have several times spoken to me in that mysterious man- 
ner, Mr. Atherton. You talk as if you had a charm, such as that 
poor, superstitious Bridget believes in.” 

“ Yet Bridget is never assailed as the others have been. Nei- 
ther her person or property have been injured.” 

“ Well, do you suppose that it is because she crosses herself 
and mutters her prayers, whenever any strange thing happens ? 
For my part,” said the beautiful Mrs. Fay, “ I believe the secret 
is that she is not so pretty as Harriet. You laugh, but these 
beings certainly have the strangest caprices. Now, there is my 
Rosamond. Why should they not cut her clothes into ribbons 
as w'ell as Eddy’s ? To be sure it would be shocking to treat a 
little girl so.” 

“ You think that Rosa is spared for the same reason that Harriet 
is persecuted ? I believe, my dear Mrs. Fay, that we shall be 
entirely foiled in endeavoring to penetrate the motives of beings 
who are in a state so different from ours — beings devoid of hope. 


440 


ALBAN. 


freed from concupiscence and passion, yet possessed of power, will, 
and understanding. I have perplexed myself much to arrive by 
analysis at what must be their condition, but humanity winds 
itself too closely round me. How know you that the spirit within 
you — the familiar tenant of your own clay — is not endued with 
a latent malice exceeding that of any of these disembodied ones 
whose presence we have been made so strangely to feel ? They 
were our companions but a few days since, if we may believe 
them. The sweet chains of flesh and blood bind us still, and if 
they enslave, restrain us. A moment — I think of it often with 
a shudder — may convert a polished youth or a modest-seeming 
woman into a malicious and obscene demon.” 

Mrs. Fay coughed — her violent cough. She applied her 
handkerchief to her mouth, and took it away again dabbled with 
blood. 

“ Do not be alarmed,” said she, sweetly smiling on him. 
“ This is a common occurrence. But I must go in. I fear that 
your conversation has induced me to remain out longer than was 
prudent.” 

It was evident, however, to Alban, that she was considerably 
agitated. He supported her into the parlor, and persuaded her to 
recline on the old-fashioned chintz sofa. 

“ Don’t call any one,” said Mrs. Fay. I shall be better 
directly.” 

A very singular rap commenced, apparently over the invalid’s 
head. None of the sounds which Alban had heard in the house 
were any thing like it. At the same instant the great Family 
Bible on the stand slowly opened. Mrs. Fay in a low voice im- 
plored him to ascertain for her the passage marked. Atherton 
had always refrained from gratifying his curiosity in this way. 

“ Of what use is it?” said he, earnestly. 

She sprang up and went to the book. He was extremely sur- 
prised to see her tear away the mark with violence. She closed 
th3 Bible, and returning to the sofa with an air of desolation, 
clasped her hands. The rapping continued. Suddenly the door 


ALBAN. 


441 


of a closet flew open, and a large blue junk bottle danced out, and 
went dancing and tumbling round the room. It was fearfully 
ludicrous. Presently out flew another. 

“ Oh, heavens !” exclaimed the unhappy invalid in a tone of 
misery, “ I can bear it no longer. I ask a truce till to-morrow 
night. Let me pass this night in quiet. Whoever you are, I beg 
it as a favor.” 

The bottles rolled over on the carpet and were quiet ; the rap- 
ping ceased ; and a bit of white paper came floating down as if 
from the ceiling, falling into Mrs. Fay’s lap. She took it, glanced 
at it, and passed it to Atherton. It was inscribed, in a singular 
but legible hand, with the following words : 

“ You shall not be disturbed 

* This incident was related to the writer by the estimable and 
intelligent lady to whom it occurred. “ I was about to receive the Sacra- 
ment on the following day,” she observed, “ and I was extremely desirous of 
passing a tranquil night, particularly as not a single night had passed with- 
out some disturbance. So I said something to that effect, and feeling war- 
ranted by the occasion, although I entertained scruples as to the lawfulness 
of holding communication with these beings, ventured to request that for 
this night they would leave us unmolested. Tlie words had hardly escaped 
my lips before a paper fell at my feet on which was written — You shall not 
be disturbed.” 


442 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER XII. 

The house was filled with the peculiar bustle, prophetic of a reli- 
pious quiet, that belongs to a New England Saturday night. Jake 
brought in armful after armful of wood from the pile, to fill the 
boxes for Sunday, and flung it in without a word. Biddy strained the 
contents of her foamy milk-pail into the pans, and ranged the latter 
on the pantry shelf without one being overset. Hatty finished 
mopping the painted floors, set the tea-table, and relieved the 
mighty oven of its hot and fragrant loaves, of the vast pan of 
baked beans, and the flat cakes of gingerbread, without once 
complaining of being pinched, or pouting her pretty lips in despite, 
because her table was lifted some inches from the floor, or a beauti- 
ful crusty loaf was sent spinning into a distant corner. The family 
partook of the evening meal and attended evening prayers with 
the feelings of ship passengers in a calm after boisterous weather, 
or just arrived in port, and who can scarce believe the absence 
of that restless and dizzy motion to which they have become ac- 
customed. 

The boy whose screams had lately alarmed them, as the hour 
of his seizure approached, became drowsy, and falling asleep at 
prayers, was carried up to bed. Whether it was the sudden 
withdrawal of excitement, or some other cause, the whole fiimily 
seemed to drop off much earlier than usual, nor did they fail to 
sleep so soundly as to make the next morning’s breakfast consider- 
ably later than was usual even on Sunday. Jake brought round 
Dr. Cone’s smart-looking chaise, (this was Madam’s innocent 
vanity,) with the shining-coated bay horse and well-appointed 
harness. Alban was not displeased to drive a lovely and elegant 
lady into Tantic, on one of the finest Sundays in June, himself 
attired in his sprucest gear. 

Mrs. Fay had a lovely spring bonnet, trimmed with lilac. It 


ALBAN. 


443 


was a New York hat, ordered as a pattern by the most fashiona- 
ble milliner in Yantic, of whom Mrs. Fay had taken it at no 
e.\travagant price, about a week previous, with fear and trem- 
bling in regard to its probable fate. Well might she tremble, for 
she had had one bonnet hidden in a drain, and another (but that 
was only a straw) ruthlessly crammed behind a sofa. And if the 
beautiful invalid — who, to those around her, seemed on the verge 
of the grave — had an apparent weakness, it was her love of 
elegant costume. But perhaps that was a part of the facile pro- 
priety, the fine perception of the becoming in conduct, which 
eminently distinguished her. Rosamond was always most suita- 
bly dressed. Being only turned of twelve, she wore shortish 
frocks and pantalets. This bright Sunday morn the little girl 
was arrayed in a cherry-colored silk, neatly made, with a 
shadowy Leghorn crowning her jetty ringlets and dark-bright 
countenance. Mrs. Fay very properly placed her daughter be- 
twixt herself and Alban, and the trio were a snug fit for the gig. 

And now, lest the reader should imagine some romantic 
mystery in the domestic relations of Mrs. Fay, inasmuch as we 
describe her certainly not as a widow, yet living it would seem 
apart from her husband, of whom we have hitherto made no 
mention, we will observe that she was the wife of an officer in 
the U. S. Navy, and that Lieutenant Fay was absent on a cruise. 
There was undoubtedly a reason why his name was so much 
avoided in the family of his wife’s sister, that Alban, for instance, 
during a stay of seven weeks, did not remember to have heard it, 
except that once or twice Rosamond had, as if inadvertently, 
spoken of “papa.” But our hero was aware that Mrs. Fay cor- 
responded regularly with her husband, and the brightest glow he 
had seen on her pale cheek was on a day when he brought her 
from the Carmel P. 0. a thick letter, stamped, in red ink, “ U. S. 
Ship Pacific.” 

For one thing, Atherton knew that the pay of a lieutenant 
was moderate, and he guessed that Mrs. Fay had very little 
money to spare. He had inferred frorn occasional expressions 


444 


ALBAN. 


which she had let fall in regard to her prolonged stay in a house 
where she sufiered such terrible agitations, that considerations of 
economy made it necessary. But as they were drawn along 
swiftly and silently over the smooth turnpike, Mrs. Fay seemed 
to him to have shaken off an incubus. She had never con- 
versed with him, or prattled to her daughter, so naturally and 
gayly. 

“Sister,” — so Mrs. Fay termed Mrs. Cone — “sister would 
have been glad to prevent your being my beau this morning, Mr. 
Atherton,” with a smile. 

“ I cannot comprehend why,” returned Alban, very sincerely. 
“ Certainly I am a more suitable one than Jake, in every respect, 
I flatter myself,” and he also smiled. 

“ Sister talked to me quite seriously about your being a hand- 
some and agreeable young man, and my husband being away, 
and so on, till I was half persuaded that I was going to do some- 
thing very improper ; and then I thought that it was too ridicu- 
lous. Why, I remember you when you were a baby, as I told 
sister, and am almost old enough to be your mother. And finally, 
I could not abide the thought of such a gallant as Jake.” 

“ Oh, mamma, I would never go to Yantic if Jake was to 
drive the chaise — would you ?" cried Rosamond. 

“ I feel quite flattered. Miss Rosa, that you prefer me to Jake,” 
said Alban, gravely. 

Rosa blushed and was silent. 

“ You are a great favorite with Rosa,” said her mother. 

“ Oh, mother ! how can you say so — right to Mr. Atherton’s 
face ! He is not a favorite of mine any more than William Rus- 
sel, or Eddy Edwards is. I like Mr. Atherton, mamma, because 
he is so polite to you — you know I always told you so.” 

“ And because aunt Cone told you that you must not, on any 
account, fall in love with him,” said her mother, archly. 

“ Oh, fie, mamma ! My mother tells tales out of school, Mr. 
Atherton, don’t she ? But she will never let me do it.” 

“ Aunt Cone seems to think me a dangerous character,” said 


ALBAN . 


445 


Alban ; “ but really, her precautions do not strike me as the most 
judicious.” 

“ I asked sister,” observed Mrs. Fay, still smiling, “ if there 
was any thing against your moral character, and she was obliged 
to confess that, so far as she knew, it was unimpeached. She 
said, indeed, that you had been ‘ rusticated,’ but declined telling 
me what had been your offence.” 

“ I am capable of committing very bad actions,” replied Al- 
ban, evasively. “ You would be shocked if you Jcnew to what 
sins I am sometimes tempted — and which perhaps I should com- 
mit, if Providence did not mercifully put it out of my power.” 

“ The life of a Christian,” piously observed Mrs. Fay, “ is a 
continual conflict with the corruption of his own heart.” 

“ If one could be sure that one was really combating,” an- 
swered the young man. “ Mrs. Cone, now, tells me that she is 
mre she loves Christ — she is sure she has passed from death unto 
life. Nothing can convince her that religion (her own religion, of 
course) is not a reality. Do you suppose, Mrs. Fay, that she has 
any conflicts, or is ever worsted in them ? or how is it that she 
does not feel what a great saint once said, that no man knoivs 
whether he is worthy of love or hatred ?” 

“ I do not like the Presbyterians — they are so self-righteous,” 
said Mrs. Fay, “ although 1 believe that there are good Christians 
in all denominations.” 

Alban smiled. 

“I was brought up in the Episcopal Church,” continued Mrs. 
Fay, “ and so was Fanny ; but she married a Presbyterian min- 
ister, and of course she joined that Church. Now that is .what I 
would not do, Mr. Atherton — leave my Church ! My husband 
never interferes with my religion. To be sure he is not a religious 
man.” 

It was natural for Alban to inquire under what form of faith 
Lieutenant Fay was nominally ranked, and he was greatly sur- 
prised when Mrs. Fay, after a glance at Rosamond, replied that 
her husband was a Roman Catholic. 

38 


446 


ALBAN. 


“ He fell in love with me at a ball, when I was only seven- 
teen,” she said, Avith a beautiful smile. “ My friends opposed it 
on the ground of his being in the navy and a Catholic. But I 
was captivated by his careless, manly manner, his ardor, and his 
handsome uniform, I suppose, and about two years after we were 
married. Rosamond was born beibre I was twenty, and her father 
never saw her till she was three years old. That was the hardest 
absence I ever had to bear, although our next — our little boy” — 
Mrs. Fay dashed away a tear — “ my husband never saw. Then 
he was ordered to the West Indies, and I went to Pensacola to be 
near him, and there my other little girl was born. She was a 
delicate child from the first, and as her little brother had been car- 
ried ofi’ in teething, I resolved not to wean her as long as I could 
help it, and that is the way I lost my own health. And after all, 
she took the scarlet fever in that fatal year, and died of it. Her 
father was absent too, but, by that time, I Avas used to bear such 
things alone ; nor have I seen him since ; you see I have had my 
sorroAvs, Mr. Atherton.” 

“ Dear mamma,” exclaimed Rosamond, drying her eyes, 
“papa will be made a commodore one of these days, and then 
he will take us to sea in his ship, and we shall have better times.” 

“ Now that I have been so communicative, Mr. Atherton,” re- 
sumed Mrs. Fay, after they had driven on in silence for some time, 
“ I hope that you Avill tell me what is that charm you spoke of yes- 
terday by Avhich I can be free from the persecution of these spirits 
(if such they are) Avhile we stay at my sister’s. I assure you that 
I shall be glad to have recourse to any thing reasonable, for apart 
from tbe agitation which I suffer from their attacks, I really can- 
not aflbrd to lose so many valuable articles from my wardrobe. 
We are too poor, ain’t we, Rosamond ?” 

They were noAv entering the beautiful toAvn of Upper Yantic, 
and the bells were already tolling for service. Alban did not 
reply to Mrs. Fay’s question, while they Avere driving past some 
of the old Atherton homesteads, which he had visited thirteen 
years before, with his aunt Elizabeth and cousin Rachel. But 


ALBAN. 


447 


when they emerged into the open road again, and saw the white 
spires of the Falls gleaming in the leafy distance, he said, 

“ Did it never strike you, Mrs. Fay, what a curious religion is 
depicted in the New Testament ? I mean about demoniacal pos- 
sessions, and the power given by Christ to His ministers to cast 
out devils. He seems to give it as a perpetual sign : ‘ In my 
name shall they cant out devils ' — ‘ they shall lay hands on the 
sick, and they shall recover? This power certainly must exist 
still in those to whom it was given, if our religion be divine.” 

“But miracles have ceased,” said Mrs. Fay. 

“ Is that in the Bible ?” 

“ No, I believe not.” 

“ Since the devils are come back,” said Alban, “ it is time to 
have recourse to the power which formerly expelled them. I am 
not at all surprised, myself, that the Kingdom of Darkness should 
be making a bold push in New England, to regain a portion of 
its old dominion over the bodies of men. Unless it be driven 
back by the old spiritual arms of the Apostles, we must look to 
see demoniacal possession soon re-established. These Presbyterians, 
certainly, can do nothing in this line ; but the ministers of your 
Church pretend to derive their orders from the Apostles. Why 
don’t you get your pastor here in Yantic to visit Carmel, Mrs. Fay, 
and compel the man-hating demons to return to their abyss ?” 

Shortly after, the easy-going gig glided into the rural street of 
Yantic — a sunlit road, an umbrageous common, a wild hill-side, 
villa-like mansions. The organ was playing when they reached 
the church door. It ceases even while Alban is carefully hand- 
ing out Mrs. Fay and half lifting down the dark-eyed Rosa ; and 
as they enter, they see the congregation already standing, and the 
white-robed minister is saying the Dearly beloved brethren. There 
were two ministers in the desk, in one of whom Alban was sur- 
prised to recognize his friend, Mr. Soapstone, and in the other, his 
mesmeric acquaintance of the stage-coach. 


448 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

As soon as the service was over, Alban went up the chancel to 
speak to Mr. Soapstone. A careless group of the male communi- 
cants, standing at the rail, were eating the remainder of the con- 
secrated bread, and draining the huge chalice, passing the latter 
from hand to hand. The whole floor along the rail was white 
with crumbs, and Alban blessed God that he could be morally cer- 
tain it was nothing but bread and wine. Poor Mr. Soapstone, who 
thought difl'erently, looked daggers at his irreverent communi- 
cants, or glanced down in despair at the Body of the Lord, as he 
considered it, trampled under foot, and left to communicate mice 
upon the chancel carpet. In that glance of mingled wrath and 
horror the future convert to Rome might already be discerned in 
the zealous Anglican minister. Mr. Soapstone gave our hero a 
cordial shake of the hand, and introduced him to “ the rector of 
the parish,” the Rev. Dr. Patristic. 

“ Mr. Atherton and I have met before,” said the latter, with a 
jovial glance, “ and I can’t say that even his name is a surprise. 
By the by, Mr. Atherton, you came in, I noticed, with an old 
friend of mine, Mrs. Fay, (lovely woman.) I knew, of course, 
that you were staying at Dr. Cone’s. Well, you must both come 
and take pot-luck with us. I will speak to Mrs. Fay as soon as 
I have changed my cassock for a coat.” 

So saying, the rector hastily withdrew into a sort of dark closet 
or passage under the pulpit, whither Mr. Soapstone had already 
retired, and whence both speedily emerged in their ordinary garb. 
Alban waited at the rail to say, in reply to Dr. Patristic’s invita- 
tion, that he meant to take Mrs. Fay to his uncle’s. 

“ What, old Deacon Atherton’s on the plain ! Is the boy mad ! 
You’ll get a fine dressing if you show yourself there. And with 
Mrs. Fay of all persons ! Why, your uncle is the bluest and bit- 


ALBAN. 


449 


terest Puritan in all Yantic. And besides, you will get nothing to 
eat but cold dough-nuts and gingerbread, for they never cook any 
thing on Sunday. No, no ; come to the rectory. We have got a 
prime quarter of lamb and mint sauce, and I rather think Mrs. 
Patristic has a batter pudding in preparation, which you will find 
vastly more agreeable than the rod which is in pickle for you at 
your uncle’s.” 

The rectory truly seemed the abode of creature-comfort. Mrs. 
Patristic, a fresh-colored and plump dame, preluded the dinner by 
an egg beaten up with wine for her husband and Mr. Soapstone, 
the latter of whom really required something, having made a step 
in advance since the preceding Christmas by receiving the com- 
munion fasting. Alban, too, played a very good knife and fork, 
for although so dreamy and so gentle in manner, the boy was no 
milksop, and here the host encouraged him both by precept and ex- 
ample. The ample frame of the rector of Yantic required a large 
pasture. The sociability of the party was aided by some choice 
wine, (which your sound churchman never finds amiss,) and it 
was soon very difficult for Mrs. Fay and our hero to realize the 
scenes they had lately witnessed otherwise than as an ugly dream. 
Certainly there was nothing ghostly about Dr. Patristic. His 
commanding, yet seductive eye spoke of the world of sense, and 
his rich masculine voice had nothing in it of the hollowness of the 
tomb. A goodly number of “olive plants” surrounded his table, 
from a fine girl of eighteen, his eldest, to a rosy-cheeked boy 
of five, his youngest born. Of course the doctor made himself 
agreeable to Mrs. Fay, and Alban divided his attention pretty 
equally between the fresh-looking Mrs. Patristic and her no less 
blooming daughter. The latter had a cheek soft and rich as a 
peach, and while Atherton chatted with her, Mrs. Fay’s beauti- 
ful gray eye often roved to them from her imposing and fluent 
host. 

Alban had promised Mrs. Fay to bring forward the subject of 
the spirits, but for some time he found no opportunity. At length 
the conversation turned on Mr. Soapstone’s asceticism. Dr. and 

38 * 


450 


ALBAN. 


Mrs. Patristic both considered that the young clergyman carried 
the mortification of the flesh to a frightful extent. 

“ What think you of tasting no food till sunset, Mrs. Fay ? 
Nothing else deserves the name of fasting, according to Mr. 
Soapstone. He says it was the mode of the Jews and primitive 
Christians.” 

“ He is more strict than the Roman Catholics,” replied the 
lady. “ Lieutenant Fay once kept Lent when we were at Pensa- 
cola, but we always dined at noon.” 

“ No Romanist ever fasts,” observed Mr. Soapstone, austerely. 
“ As you say, even in Lent they are allowed a full meal at twelve 
o’clock. Then there is the collation in the evening, and ‘ custom 
has introduced,’ a cup of tea or cofiee in the morning, with a bit 
of bread. This is not fasting, unless it be fasting to take three 
meals a day.” 

“If it be true that ‘ this kind can come forth by nothing but 
by prayer and fasting,’ Mrs. Fay,” said Alban, “ Mr. Soapstone is 
just the person to rid us of our persecutions at Carmel.” 

“ What persecutions ?” demanded the rector. 

Dr. Patristic’s countenance sobered into an expression of pro- 
found interest, as he listened to the account which Mrs. Fay and 
Alban now proceeded to give of the disturbances in Dr. Cone’s 
house. 

“ We have talked over similar matters before,” said he, with 
a significant glance at Atherton. “ Dr. Cone has always been a 
believer in Mesmerism. I remember that several years ago he 
was full of certain revelations delivered by a clairvoyant boy.” 

“It is not the first time, then, that the doctor has meddled 
with forbidden knowledge,” observed Alban. 

“ I have heard strange reports about noises being heard at 
Carmel,” said the rector, “ but I took for granted that it was the 
silly exaggeration of some old women. Mrs. Fay and you have 
astonished me. How very strange is that incident of the billet 
being thrown down ! And that horrible junk bottle dancing out 
of the closet !” 


ALBAN. 


451 


A thrill of horror ran round the table, but Rosamond Fay- 
laughed. 

“ It is the greatest amusement of this child,” said Atherton, 
“to run and pick up the things that are thrown about the house.” 

“ I must pay you a visit at Carmel,” said the rector, “ and see 
for myself. No human hand could do what you describe as being 
done.” 

The rector’s curiosity was excited to such a degree that he re- 
solved to visit Carmel that very evening after the second service. 
To the scandal of the Puritans at Yantic, and even of his own 
flock, who marvelled at such style in a minister. Dr. Patristic kept a 
pair of fine bays and a sort of curricle which he was accustomed to 
drive on Sunday evenings, really to exercise the horses, but osten- 
sibly to hold service in a neighboring village. Mrs. Fay and Ath- 
erton readily agreed to stay for an early tea, and start at the same 
time with their host. Mr. Soapstone was to accompany his eccle- 
.siastical superior, to try the efl'ect of an exorcism. Alban never 
ceased to impress upon Mrs. Fay that if any minister of her 
Church could lay the evil spirits at Carmel, Mr. Soapstone, being 
full of faith, an ascetic, and a sort of confessor, would certainly 
be able. For we must not omit to mention that Mr. Soapstone 
had been finally driven from New Haven in consequence of the 
unpopularity of his views, the strong anti-popery feeling excited 
in the community by the death of Walker having required a vic- 
tim more important than our Alban. The whole thing, indeed, 
was now traced up to his Christmas-eve sermon, the evergreen 
cross, and candles on the communion table. 

Dr. Patristic, not being an ascetic, but a husband and father, 
insisted on Mrs. Fay taking a seat in the curricle, an arrangement 
which Atherton -w'as at first minded to resist as an impudent inva- 
sion of his rights, but a gentle whisper from the lady herself pro- 
cured his acquiescence. The gig received the two young men and 
Rosamond. A red, red sunset soon faded over the hills, and the 
nearly perfect orb of the already risen moon brightened the stern- 
featured landscape. Over the moon-lit road, now rising to surmount 


452 


ALBAN. 


a hill, now sinking into a valley, the chaise chased the curricle, 
the single horse the pair, and the former lost no ground, though 
flecked with foam from the ardent rivalry. 

“ And what news from New Haven ?” 

“ Not much. Your cousin Henry is engaged, they say, to Miss 
Ellsworth.” 

“Is that all?” . 

“ Miss De Groot passed through on her way to enter a«on- 
vent.” 

“Ah !” 

“ You knew of it, I suppose ?” ’ 

“ I am not surprised.” 

“ An immense grief to her family, it was understood. Some 
said that she had quitted them clandestinely, but the Everetts 
told me that was entirely false.” 

“ Of course — it is too absurd.” 

“ She was travelling with a couple of nuns, and the mob of 
New Haven with a lot of students came near attacking the hotel.” 

“ Miscreants I” 

“ The notion was that these terrible nuns were carrying off 
this young girl, and that once they got her into a convent, she 
would never he allowed to come out.” 

“ And so they wanted to rescue her, even against her will ? It 
was rather a generous idea, after all.” 

“ The New England people, Atherton, hate Popery in every 
shape. The more amiable in appearance, the more they suspect 
it.” 

“ It is a spiritual system, and they are carnal.” 

“ The common impression is exactly the reverse.” 

“ Yes, because by spirituality is understood vagueness. A 
positive spiritual power is offensive to those who judge after the 
flesh. It is not simply incredible to the Protestant mind, it is 
hateful, that the Church should cast out devils, work miracles, 
forgive sins, impart the Holy Ghost, and possess the gift of truth. 
Yet all these are what Christ does. Protestantism knows Christ 


ALBAN. 


453 


only as a lovely abstraction, and shrinks like a scared fiend from 
his bodily presence.” 

“ And yet,” said Mr. Soapstone, “ they are never tired of 
telling you that it is the indisposition of the carnal heart to the 
truths of the gospel, which makes you turn from pure evan- 
gelical Christianity and justification by faith alone, to a system of 
forms and works.” 

“ * Every spirit that confesseth not that Jesus Christ is come 
in the jle&h is not of God, and this is antichrist.’ This is the 
Protestant translation ; the Vulgate says, ‘ that dissolveth Jesus,’ 
which means nearly the same. To separate the human and 
divine in our Lord, either in His person or His religion, is antichris- 
tian. But how very strange. Soapstone, that people should fancy 
it to be a mortification of the carnal heart to pick out a religion 
for one’s self from the Bible instead of receiving it from the 
Church. Why, the Protestant principle, in this respect, is the 
most flattering to spiritual pride that it is possible to conceive.” 

Mr. Soapstone gravely assented to all these propositions, for 
fancying himself quite pure from all stain of Protestantism, no 
one more ready than he to send Protestantism to Coventry. Al- 
ban was irritated by this conceit, which indeed renders your high 
Anglican the most impracticable animal in existence. As our 
hero became silent, the Anglican minister began to talk about his 
present superior. 

“ I came to Yantic,” said he, “ supposing that Dr. Patristic was 
a true Catholic-minded man. But he has only a smattering of 
the Fathers, and no idea at all of the Church. Yet he thinks he 
knows every thing. In regard to the sacrament, he adopts the 
Non-juring hypothesis of an Eucharistic body distinct from the 
natural, and that the consecrated bread itself is the only Body of 
Christ we ever receive.” 

“ And what do you think of it ?” inquired Alhan. 

“ I believe with the Greek Church and the whole body of the 
Fathers, that after consecration what was bread before is the real 
Body of Christ, and the cup His real Blood. From Justin Martyr 


454 . 


ALBAN. 


and Ignatius down, there is hut one voice on this subject in all 
Christian antiquity, although the word Transubstantiation did not 
come into use till a comparatively modern period.” 

“ I suppose then,” said Alban, “ that when Dr. Patristic to-day 
after service gave you a double handful of the communion-bread 
to consume, this was the reason you knelt down in the chancel to 
eat it, instead of standing as he and the rest did. It looked rather 
funny, but you believed it was the real body of Christ ?” 

“ Assuredly.” 

“ And the contents of that huge chalice which one or two 
nervous girls, I noticed, came near spilling when they took it into 
their hands for communion, you believed to be the real Blood of 
Christ ?” 

“ Certainly, Atherton.” 

“ To-day being a great feast, nearly all the devout members of 
your Church must have received communion — say half a million 
of persons in all, (a large estimate perhaps,) — how many of these, 
do you suppose, believe as you do about it ?” 

“ Perhaps two or three individuals — perhaps not one,” replied 
Mr. Soapstone, heroically. 

“ And the rest had as little idea what they were receiving as 
the mice who took what was left on the floor this morning. If 
the Ark of God smote the Philistines with plagues, and slew the 
men of Bethshemesh for prying into it, I wonder greatly at the im- 
punity of your people in eating without discerning the Body of the 
Lord. Does God, year after year, permit the commission of such 
horrible wholesale sacrilege ?” 

“ True,” groaned Mr. Soapstone. “ It is very distressing, es- 
pecially when we remember what the Fathers say even in the 
second century, of the care used by the primitive Christians to 
prevent a particle of the sacred Body falling to the earth, or a 
drop of the precious Blood being spilt. I am quite with you there.” 

“ But how can you remain in your present communion with 
such feelings ?” 

“ With a view of calling it back from its errors,” replied Mr. 


ALBAN . 


455 


Soapstone. “ Our Church does not claim infallibility. If falli- 
ble, she may be in error. If in error, she ought to be set right. 
Before Henry the Eighth’s time, the Church of England held 
Transubstantiation. I believe as she believed then.” 

“ What nonsense !” exclaimed Alban. “ The essence of a 
Church is in the profession and inculcation of truth. Where 
there is not identity of doctrine, the identity of a Church van- 
ishes. You are no more the same Church which existed in En- 
gland before Henry the Eighth, than a changeling is the same 
child with that whose cradle, name, and inheritance it usurps'' 

After some desultory conversation on this point, which the 
Anglican minister would by no means concede, to Alban’s sur- 
prise, his companion fell back upon some of the popular objections 
to Transubstantiation itself, urging them not against the tenet in- 
deed, but against the practice of communion in one kind. 

“ To reason in this way,” said Alban, “ is to fall below the 
region of pure, unclouded ideas into the mist of the senses, and 
to betray as gross an ignorance of spiritual laws as the clown 
does of natural, who, because his ponds are not emptied by night, 
refuses to believe the revolution of the globe on its axis. Come 
now, with this pretended philosophy, and analyze for me the 
germ. Explain how it is, that in a speck of albumen, so minute 
that it needs a microscope to discover it, are contained all the mani- 
fold characteristics of the class, the order, the genus, the species, and 
the variety, to which the future individual belongs — all the trans- 
missible peculiarities of both his parents, bodily and mental — the 
red hair of one, the club-foot of another, the insanity or genius of 
a grandparent. And how does that same speck of albumen (the 
flesh of the first Adam) communicate the spiritual effects of the 
fall, and cause the new being to be infected with concupiscence, 
devoid of justice and sanctity, and an alien from God ? These 
questions solved, I will explain the rationale of concomitance, and 
the life-giving virtue of communion.” 

The young Rosamond, nestling in her corner of the gig, with 
her slender limbs crossed, to take up as little room as possible, 


456 


ALBAN. 


listened with an attention which verified the proverb about the 
ears possessed by “ little pitchers.” But ten miles of good road 
are soon got over by willing steeds. At a trifle past nine the cur- 
ricle and gig stopped almost at the same moment at Dr. Cone’s 
gate. Mrs. Cone came out into the piazza to reprove her sister 
for choosing to return by moonlight with her young beau, but her 
thoughts were driven into another channel when she saw Dr. Pa- 
tristic, with a half fatherly, half courtierly air, conducting Mrs 
Fay up the gravelled walk to the house. 


/ 


ALBAN, 


467 


CHAPTER XIV. 

The first sounds which saluted the ears of the visitors on entering, 
and indeed before entering, were the shrieks of the child Eddy, 
who had been going on terribly, said Mrs. Cone, ever since sun- 
down. The quiet of the Sabbath had not been disturbed till 
that hour, when just as the sun dropped below the rim of hills, 
stifled cries were heard proceeding from the chambers. After a 
brief search, following the sounds, Eddy had been found in the 
closet of Mrs. Fay’s room, perched (goodness knows how he ever 
got there !) on a shelf so high that a grown woman could barely 
reach it by the aid of a chair. The lower part of the closet was 
a press, with hooks for ladies’ dresses. It was with difliculty that 
Dr. Cone and the eldest pupil had succeeded in dislodging the poor 
little fellow from his dangerous position, for he resisted with 
screams every attempt, until it was discovered at last that a cord 
was noosed round his neck, and attached to one of the hooks 
before mentioned, as if with the design of hanging him. This 
was the most horridly malicious purpose yet betrayed by the 
invisible persecutors of the family. Ever since, or for more than 
an hour, the boy had lain on the floor of the room into which he 
had been conveyed, uttering incessant screams, but apparently 
unconscious of what was going on. The village doctor had been 
sent for, and had administered a powerful medicine, which hitherto 
had produced no efiect, Such was the account given by Mrs. Cone 
to her visitors, and confirmed by their own observation, as they 
stood by the child himself in his dim chamber. The two elder 
pupils and the two Irish girls were watching by him. 

“ It’s a divil he has,” observed Bridget, pausing in her beads. 
" If yer riverince could but spake a word to cast him out.” 

“ Nay, it’s but fits, the doctor says,” returned Harriet, “ and 
what could his reverence do for fits ?” 

. 39 


458 


ALBAN. 


“ This is demoniacal possession,” said Dr. Tatristic, preparing 
to retreat from the room. 

Some low raps on the dusky walls quickened considerably the 
rector’s flight. In the cheerfully lighted parlor, the nature of the 
visitation was further discussed. Dr. Patristic betrayed a good 
deal of timidity, particularly when Rosamond Fay, who was visi- 
bly delighted at the rector’s fears, finding that the spirits were 
slower than usual in their demonstrations, slyly pushed over one 
of the heavy chairs when no one was looking. 

“ Rosamond,” said her mother, after reproving the child for this 
feat, and checking the untimely mirth which followed its success, 
“ Rosamond is the only person in the house who has never shown 
fear on these occasions. The only instance, I remember, which 
at first looked like it, was when Eddy’s clothes were cut to 
pieces on the night that you arrived, Mr. Atherton. She screamed 
then, but I afterwards found it was from another cause. Rosa 
is sensitively modest.” 

The young girl grew red, and at the final word hid her face 
in her mother’s lap. Mrs. Fay merely stroked the black-ringleted 
head with a quiet motion of the hand which could scarcely be 
called a caress. 

“ I wish Mr. Soapstone would begin his exorcism,” said Alban. 
“ I have great faith in that.” 

“ If Dr. Cone has no objections, I think we might do something 
in this case,” said the young clergyman, modestly. 

Dr. Cone observed with patient courtesy that several of the 
neighboring brethren had given him the benefit of their prayers. 
If these gentlemen thought that those of a minister of their 
Church M'ould prove more efficacious, they were welcome to try. 
The truth was that the good doctor, as well as the family in 
general, would have been glad of relief from any source. He had 
felt compelled to write to the friends of the afilicted boy to take him 
home, and justly apprehended, with the continuance of the inflic- 
tion, the loss of all his pupils, not to speak of the injuries he 
received in his property, reputation, and comfort. In former times 


ALBAN. 


459 


the whole world believed in demoniac agency, but now-a-days few 
people would be found to credit any thing of the sort, so that the 
least imputation to which he was liable was that of being' easily 
imposed upon. 

There then arose a brief contest of professional courtesy be- 
tween the rector and his assistant, which should officiate on this 
trying occasion. But Dr. Patristic was resolved not to meddle 
more than he could help with spirits of darkness, and the younger 
clergyman, not without some appearance of uneasiness, yet over- 
coming natural fears by an undaunted spirit and a faith in his 
own vocation, left the room to assume his cassock and bands, sur- 
plice and stole, from a bundle which he had brought in the curricle 
box. He reappeared a figure calculated to awe even spirits. In 
one hand he bore his prayer-book, and in the other a large vial, 
from which he presently poured a colorless liquid into a bowl 
placed by Mrs. Cone, at his request, on the table. 

“ What is that ?” demanded Dr. Patristic, aghast. 

“ Some water from the font, which I saved after the baptism 
this evening,” returned the assistant. “ It has been solemnly 
blessed in the administration of the sacrament, and I deemed it 
could not but possess some power to quell the evil spirits whom 
baptism has ever been held to dispossess.” 

“ It is Protestant holy-water,” said Alban. 

“ Really, brother S.,” returned the rector,” I doubt if our Church 
ever contemplated, much more authorized, such an application of 
the water of the font.” 

“ She authorizes us to bless it, and does not prescribe what 
shall be done with it afterwards,” replied the young clergyman. 
“ And in the reign of Charles I. I find that holy, or blessed water 
was used in the Church of England by Laud, Andrews, and some 
others. So I am not without precedent.” 

Mr. Soapstone, therefore, proceeded. First, he opened the 
great Bible and read with much solemnity a chapter from the 
gospel containing the promise of our Saviour that his disciples 
should cast out devils in his name. The scene was deeply 


460 


ALBAN. 


impressive, and even awe-inspiring, but less so, perhaps, when the 
young minister, closing the book, invited those present to join him 
in the Litany. When, however, those petitions were recited which 
pray that “ Satan may be finally beaten down under our feet,” 
and “ that those evils which the craft or subtlety of the devil or 
man worketh against us, may be brought to naught,” the voice of 
the reader became earnest, and most present were sensible of an 
emotion of awe. All were kneeling except Alban and Rosamond 
Fay. The latter had begun to laugh when Harriet, who was sent 
for on the score of her being an Episcopalian, responded some- 
what louder than her wont ; and in order to conceal her merri- 
ment, the little girl was forced to retreat behind the sofa, where 
she remained curled up on the floor till the prayers were con- 
cluded. 

It was a favorable sign that the knocking, which was usually 
troublesome at prayer-time, ceased entirely during the litany. As 
the prayer-book did not contain any collect expressing the precise 
intention of the present devotions, the young clergyman offered 
one of his own composition, brief and pointed, appealing to the 
promise made to the ministers of Christ, aikl imploring its fulfil- 
ment in the deliverance of this family, and particularly of the 
most suffering member thereof, from the malicious persecutions of 
Satan. Mr. Soapstone used not many vain repetitions. Rising 
from his knees, he sprinkled the font-water round the room, and 
upon the persons present, except Alban, who, with a grave ges- 
ture, declined any share in the aspersion, and the youthful Rosa- 
mond, who, apprehensive perhaps for her cherry-silk frock, when 
she saw her turn coming, sprang to her feet and took refuge be- 
hind our hero. 

“ It is quiet now,” said Mrs. Fay to the latter, in a half-whis- 
per, when Mr. Soapstone had left the room to say a prayer and 
sprinkle some of the consecrated element over the little sufferer 
up stairs. 

“ Perhaps it is going to succeed,” replied Alban, in the same 
tone of voice. “ We shall see presently.” 


ALBAN. 


461 


The minister returned, and all being indeed hushed, even to 
Eddy’s shrieks, concluded with an appropriate collect and the ben- 
ediction. Scarcely was the latter uttered, when the great Bible 
from which he had read the lesson, flew open. The passage 
marked was in the Acts, the xixth chapter and 15th verse. All 
crowded to read it, but ere it could be finished by Dr. Patristic, 
whether it was that he leaned too heavily on the stand, or from 
a supernatural cause, one end flew up ; the Bible, the candles, 
the holy-water, bowl and all, went rolling off in all directions. 
One of the candles blazing up on the carpet, caught Mr. Soap- 
stone’s long surplice, and in a trice the minister was enveloped 
in flames. Every body fled from him, the women loudly scream- 
ing, and but for Atherton’s presence of mind in throwing him 
rather irreverently down and rolling him in the rug, Mr. Soap- 
stone might have paid for his temerity with Kis life. A scene of 
confusion and clamor followed such as had never occurred before. 
The raps were deafening, several windows were broken, various 
objects were thrown with violence. As one of the candles had 
been extinguished in falling and the other had been intentionally 
put out by Mrs. Cone, when the conflagration of the surplice was 
arrested, the room remained in darkness except for the moonlight 
shining in at a side window. There was much wild running 
hither and thither from purposeless alarm, so that the scene was 
like an incantation of witches. The pretty Harriet, uttering loud 
exclamations, did not perceive that her gown was becoming slowly 
inflated, till it suddenly flew over her head. Shrieking, she at- 
tempted to fly from the room, but unable to see where she was 
going, ran against Dr. Patristic, who lost his balance and tumbled 
over a chair, dragging the girl with him in his fall. All the 
Episcopalians, in fact, were ridiculously prostrate ; Mrs. Fay lying 
on the sofa terrified rather than hurt. Rosamond sat on the 
edge of it, bending almost double with suppressed laughter, and 
over all rose Eddy’s piercing screams. 

A loud knock was heard at the front door, and all other sounds 
suddenly ceased. 


39 » 


462 


ALBAN . 


All listened. The knocking was repeated. It was in vain 
that Mrs. Cone, coming in with a light, commanded now the boys, 
now Harriet, to go to the door and see who was there. Such ter- 
ror had been struck into every heart that no one dared stir, till, 
on the knock being heard a third time, very quick and impatient, 
Alban, who with Rosamond, had been inquiring into her mother’s 
situation, seeing that no one else would, himself went to the door. 

“ Sir,” said the stranger, “ your horses have run away with 
your carriage.” 

“ My horses !” exclaimed Dr. Patristic. “ Give me ray hat ! 
Soapstone, the horses have run away — let’s after them at once !” 

And the rector of Yantic, forgetting his fears and recent dis- 
comfiture, rushed from the house, followed, with an inferior degree 
of impetuosity, by his less interested assistant. 

“ Won’t you walk in, sir,” said Dr. Cone, now advancing and 
courteously addressing the stranger, who still remained on the 
threshold. 

“Nay, my good sir,” replied he, “ I have myself met with a 
misfortune. The runaway equipage came violently in contact 
with the light wagon in which 1 was just passing your house, and 
we find that a bolt has been broken, which must be repaired be- 
fore we can proceed. The young man who is with me has gone 
on to your neighbor, the blacksmith’s ; but I do not like, at this 
hour, to trespass so long as I may be obliged to wait.” 

A renewal of the invitation, and cordial assurances that it 
would be no intrusion, overcame the stranger’s scruples. 

He entered with a frank air, and took a seat near the stand 
which had been overset, but which was now on its legs again, and 
the candles replaced on it. His appearance was rather prepos- 
sessing. He wore a black frock-coat and black neckcloth, not- 
withstanding the warmth of the weather, and had a red ribbon 
round the neck, probably serving to suspend a locket, or other 
memorial, in the pocket of his waistcoat. His thick black hair 
was closely cut, and the razor had not spared a single vestige of 
whisker or beard, to break the outline of a dark but regular 


ALBAN. 


463 


physiognomy. A piercing eye and a calm gravity about the 
mouth gave him a commanding aspect, although the facial mus- 
cles were quite free from the wooden sternness of New England, 
and it seemed as if it would take little to relax his features into a 
smile. 

This further appeared when he entered into the usual topics 
of conversation, courteously started by his hosts, such as the 
weather and the roads, and met their characteristic inquiries as to 
his destination and motive for travelling so late on Sunday even- 
ing. The stranger evaded this inquisition with good humor. 

“ You are bound to Yantic, I suppose, sir ?” said Dr. Cone. 

“ They say it is a wise man who knows whither he is bound till 
he arrives at the journey’s end,” replied the traveller, laughing. 
“ Pray, sir, to return your question, what place is this ?” 

“ It is called Carmel,” said Dr. Cone. 

“ Carmel !” said the traveller, thoughtfully.” “ A name of 
^many associations. Was it not at Carmel that the prophet Elias 
defied the worshippers of Baal to a trial?” 

“ The prophet Elijah,” observed Dr. Cone. 

“ Ah, yes, Elijah or Elias, I believe it is the same,” said the 
stranger, with simplicity. 

It might be that twenty minutes thus elapsed ere the two 
Episcopal clergymen returned, having abandoned the pursuit of 
the fugitive horses in person ; but the rector had engaged a 
countryman to follow and bring them back. And while Dr. and 
Mrs. Cone were yet offering a hospitality for the night — which 
their guests perforce accepted — the young man of whom the 
belated traveller had spoken, returned with the blacksmith him- 
self, to say that it would be impossible to repair the accident of 
the wagon before morning. 

“ I must have daylight to do it, sir,” said the son of Vulcan. 
“ And, any way, I could not get you started before midnight. It’s 
well on towards eleven, and my fire is out.” 

“ Good reasons, my friend,” interrupted the stranger. “ But 
is there a public house in this Carmel ?” 


464 


ALBAN. 


Dr. and Mrs. Cone consulted each other apart, and then cordially 
offered the stranger a bed. In retired places in America, a passing 
traveller is always welcome, particularly if he be intelligent and 
gentlemanlike ; and in this instance, the hosts might be conscious 
that they were partly responsible for the stranger’s mishap ; while 
the fact that his arrival had been marked by a complete cessation 
of the frightful disturbance in their house, coupled perhaps with a 
fear that it might recommence at his departure, animated their 
hospitality still further, and made them press the offer with a 
warmth to which the traveller, not without surprise, at length 
yielded. The broken wagon was drawn to the smithy, the stran- 
ger’s horse received into the doctor’s stable, his valise brought into 
the house, his travelling companion was accommodated by the smith 
himself, and Mrs. Cone, bustling and cheerful, got out fresh bed- 
linen, and caused supper to be prepared for her unexpected guests. 

“ Alban,” she whispered to our hero, “ you must put up with 
the sofa for to-night, and resign your room to Dr. Patristic and» 
Mr. Soapstone, (I wish they were both in Guinea !) for the strange 
gentleman must have the little room, (the prophet’s chamber.) 

I suppose he will be contented, as he doesn’t seem difficult.” 

The traveller had resumed his seat and was fallen into a pro- 
found revery, from which he at length emerged only to take a 
book from his pocket and settle himself quietly to read, saying, 
“ May I ask the favor, madam, to be shown to the apartment you 
intend for me, a few minutes before supper — and forthwith he 
became completely absorbed in his book. Supper in due time 
was ready, the stranger w'as shown to his room, and Rosamond 
Fay, whose bright eyes had scarcely been taken off from him since 
he entered, immediately whispered, turning to her mother and 
Alban, “ I wonder why he wears that red ribbon round his neck.” 

When the stranger returned the red ribbon had disappeared ; 
whether he had taken it off or merely concealed it, could only be 
matter of speculation. The first thing on his re-entrance, the 
great Bible, now replaced on the stand, flew open, and he started. 
Rosamond ran to read the passage aloud. 


ALBAN , 


465 


" Oh, mamma ! it is marked with a red cross. — Be not forget- 
ful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained 
angels unatcares." 

“ What is the meaning of that ?” asked the traveller, ap- 
proaching the book with a frown. 

Rap, rap, rap ! Rap, rap. 

“ What is that ?” — And he started again. “ Is the house 
haunted ?” 

“ By demons,” said Alban. 

“ Come in to supper, sir,” said Dr. Cone, “ and we will tell 
you all about it.” 

And the stranger slowly made the sign of the cross from the 
forehead to the breast. 


466 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Nothing had been said but a brief grace by Dr. Patristic, when 
a light-colored, glittering object fell heavily upon the table before 
Mrs. Fay. It was a portrait-cameo, which she had worn that 
morning to Yantic, but had taken off with the hat and shawl on 
her return. The fact was that it was a portrait of Lieutenant 
Fay, and she never wore it at Carmel from a feeling of delicacy 
towards her sister and brother-in-law, to whom her husband was 
odious, in the same way as she avoided mentioning his name be- 
fore them. Faintly blushing, Mrs. Fay took the ornament from 
the table, and attached it in the usual manner of a brooch to the 
neck-ribbon of her dress. 

“ Whence came it ?” demanded the stranger, casting his eyes 
up to the ceiling. 

“ Twenty minutes or half an hour ago, sir, I locked it up in 
my trunk, in my own room,” replied Mrs. Fay, quietly. “These 
things are of hourly occurrence in this house, sir.” 

The stranger, who left his plate untouched, again demanded 
an explanation, which could only be afforded by narrating more 
instances of the same kind. Piece by piece — some of the family 
rather exaggerating, others perhaps failing short of the truth — 
the whole history of the visitation came out. When Alban de- 
scribed (for the rest shunned that point) Mr. Soapstone’s attempted 
exorcism, the stranger smiled. 

“ Still,” observed he, “ the principal object seems to have been 
gained, or why do I not hear the cries of the lad you speak of?” 

A shriek, up stairs, from Eddy, causing a general start and 
shudder, answered the question almost ere it had escaped the lips 
of the questioner. 

“ Have you or any of your family,” demanded the traveller, 
addressing Dr. Cone, “ ever sought intercourse with spirits, by 


ALBAN. 


467 


consulting fortune-tellers, or pythonists, (that is, persons having 
familiar spirits,) or pretenders to the second sight, or clairvoyants, 
or by using any charms or divinations yourselves ?” 

Dr. Patristic and Dr. Cone both looked guilty, and the latter 
confessed to having had to do -with clairvoyants, but maintained, 
with some W'armth, that theirs was but a natural state in which 
the latent faculties of the soul were extraordinarily developed. 
Dr, Patristic shook his head at this, while the stranger replied, 

“ So the professors of magic have ever reasoned. Every thing 
real is natural in one sense, but there is a lawful order in the ac- 
quisition of knowledge, as well as in other things. Our natural 
senses, reason, and divine revelation, are the only legitimate 
sources of knowledge. If, in attempting to pass these limits, you 
find yourself in the power of demons, you have only yourself to 
blame.” 

Supper done, the ladies retired ; but before the gentlemen 
could follow their example, first Mrs. Cone and then Atherton 
w'ere summoned by Rosamond to her mother’s room, and presently 
Alban called the whole family to witness the singular exhibition 
there presented. 

Mrs. Fay’s table was covered with a white sheet, arranged in 
a peculiar style, and upon it were set a pair of lighted candles, an 
open book, and a bowl of water. A number of figures, in male 
and female attii’e, knelt around in various attitudes of devotion — 
one kneeling at the table itself, being arrayed in the half-burned 
surplice, bands, and stole of Mr. Soapstone. The effect was 
startling, and it was difficult to believe they were not real person- 
ages till Rosamond, venturing, as usual, to approach, pushed one 
of them over, with a laugh, and it was seen that they were 
figures dressed up with the aid of garments belonging to the 
family. 

“ Did you ever see any thing so curious in your life?” said Dr. 
Patristic, taking up a figure dressed in a silk gown of Mi's. Fay’s, 
fitting more perfectly, too, than it ever did on the fragile form of 
its owner. 


468 


ALBAN . 


But Harriet, in her good-humored Irish* way, going to undress 
this life-size doll before everybody, excited some merriment, min- 
gled with blushing reproofs from the ladies, by showing that it 
was arrayed as scrupulously in all respects as one of themselves ; 
and yet the inside of all these figures consisted of a few pieces of 
household linen, and old carpet, and, wonderful to relate — as 
showing the inconceivable quickness with which this display had 
been got up — in the very centre of the carefully dressed one, rep- 
resenting > Mrs. Fay, was found a sort of crumb-cloth or dragget, 
which had been spread under the table during supper. - With one 
rude shake they tumbled to pieces. 

The mixed wonder, amusement, and strange surmises occasioned 
by this singular representation were put to an end by a new and 
startling incident. Bridget came to the door and said — “ Please, 
ma’am, send some of the gentlemen here, for sure Eddy has 
stripped himself as naked as the day he was born, and is a-running 
about the house.” 

The screams of the demoniac boy, though only occasional, for 
his strength seemed somewhat exhausted, impeded sleep. Few in 
the house but listened awe-struck on their beds. Dark and malig- 
nant was that spirit from the deep, who, the first perhaps for 
ages, had burst the restraint imposed upon his accursed race, and 
dared openly to manifest his ancient lust and power of torment. 
So at least deemed most of those who heard him. 

Alban had volunteered to sit up with Eddy, who could not 
safely be left alone for an instant, and Mr. Soapstone charitably 
insisted on sharing his watch. Dr. Patristic was at first con- 
siderably nervous about sleeping alone in the adjacent room, until 
Dr. Cone, after visiting the child for the last time before retiring, 
went in to confer with the rector of Yantic, and these two wor- 
thies were soon in deep conversation on the mysteries of the 
spiritual world. Atherton and the young Episcopal clergyman in- 
sensibly fell to whispering on the same topic. 

“ My greatest difficulty in ascribing these things to diabolical 
agency,” said Mr. Soapstone, “ is the absence of apparent motive. 


ALBAN. 


469 


Satan, why should he play such tricks ? They are unworthy the 
prince of darkness.” 

“ Well, I think there are several clear marks of his presence,” 
returned the clear-headed student ; — “ a power above human ; 
malice in its use ; a restraint upon its exercise ; and a general 
tendency of the whole in the long run to glorify the Eternal Ruler 
by whom it is permitted.” 

“ Yet seems it not stran'ge even to you, Atherton, that these 
infernal powers are permitted to defy and insult our religion in any 
form, to mock it by sacrilegious representations ?” 

“ Not stranger than that heretics are permitted to travesty the 
priesthood, the sacrifice, and the Sacrament of the Lord’s Body, in 
their profane and perverted rites. Is it not enough,” said Alban, 
warmly, “ that you impose your trumpery notions upon men, but 
you expect the very devils to revere the cheat ! Earth, no doubt, 
has some respect for solemn shams ; Hell has none !” 

Eddy half rose up and grinned horribly. He was but half- 
clothed, for except by tying him it was found impossible to prevent 
his stripping off his garments. While the family were at supper 
he had made one desperate attempt to get into the stranger’s 
apartment, but Bridget had fortunately locked the door. Bridget 
had shown the stranger to his room, and after he had left it might 
have been seen to kneel outside the door and pray. 

The young men were about to resume their conversation, when 
the demoniac again showed signs of trouble ; a step was heard in 
the passage ; Eddy made one bound into the furthest corner of the 
apartment, and the strange traveller entered. 

He was not habited as before. A coarse, dark-brown woollen 
robe, with a long scapular hanging down before and behind, 
flowed to his feet, unconfined even about the waist by cord or 
belt. The red ribbon was again around his neck. Slightly bow- 
ing to the young men, he said, with quiet authority, “ I want to 
see this boy,” and immediately approached the possessed. To the 
astonishment of all, Eddy broke forth in a torrent of curses and 
abuse. It was not loud, rather muttered like the rolling growl of 

40 


470 


ALBAN. 


Borae incensed animal, but such abominable oaths and impreca- 
tions, such a filthy stream of obscenity and blasphemy never 
issued from human lips. 

“ Immundissime S2nritm,tace I" said the stranger, laying his 
hand firmly on the boy’s crouching head. “ In nomine Jesu 
Nazar eni adjuro te." 

The boy spat in his face and was silent. Eddy had naturally 
a sweet countenance. It was now upturned to the stranger’s with 
an expression of revolting malignity. 

“ What is thy name ?” demanded the latter sternly. 

“ Elias Walker,” said the boy, between his teeth. 

Alban started. 

“ Speak truth in the name of God.” 

“ Edward Fay — ” 

“ Remember — in nomine — ” 

“ Legio shouted the boy at the very top of his voice. 

“ Is there a cause wherefore thou art come, and what cause ? 
In nomine — ” 

“ Ask him” in the same tone, and pointing to Atherton ; — 
“ him and yonder woman.” — The boy used the coarsest of appel- 
latives, and pointed with his index finger in the direction of Mrs. 
Fay’s apartment. 

“ Speak truth,” returned the stranger, “ as thou fearest Him 
who is so near us both.” 

The boy faintly clutched at the red ribbon which was just 
visible at the stranger’s throat, and sank on the floor as if sense- 
less. 

The stranger slowly turned to the appalled witnesses of this 
scene, and fastened upon Alban his dark, penetrating eyes. 

“ Ydu are a Catholic, young sir? That good girl Bridget told 
me you wanted to see a priest. Please step into my room for a 
few minutes. This gentleman will not fear being left alone with 
the child.” 

The “ prophet’s chamber,” in truth, had in it little more than 
the Sunamitess gave Eliseus : — a “ little bed, a table, a stool, and 


ALBAN , 


471 


a candlestick.” The stranger’s large valise, to economize space, 
had been put beneath the table. On the bed lay a fine Roman 
surplice and purple stole, which the monk, (as he evidently was,) 
without asking Alban any farther questions, immediately put on. 
Having thus done, he seated himself in the solitary chair which 
the little apartment aflbrded, and laying his hand authoritatively 
on the table at his side, said, “ Kneel there.” 

For a moment the haughty blood rushed to Alban’s face, at 
being thus ordered, but in a moment the emotion had passed, and 
the youth humbly knelt, while the monk, having murmured, “ The 
Lord be in thy heart and on thy lips,” — with a rapid motion of 
benediction, added, in the same tone of abrupt command as before, 

“ Say the conjiteor.” 

Alban obeyed in a tremulous voice. The moment he reached 
the mea culpa, the stranger demanded, shortly, “ When were you 
last at confession ?” 

“ Never,” replied Atherton, 

“Never?” said the priest, slightly turning round, for he was 
leaning with his elbow on the table, and his hand over his eyes. 

“ I am only a convert, and have never had an opportunity of 
being received into the Church.” 

The Carmelite was silent for a minute, and then said in a 
kind, softened voice, 

“ You have been baptized?” 

“ In infancy, by a Congregationalist minister.” 

“ Accuse yourself, my son, with candor, but without scrupulos- 
ity, of those things in your past life by which you are conscious 
of having offended God.” 

Alban continued on his knees nearly two hours. Unexpect- 
edly as this confession had come upon him he was abundantly pre- 
pared for it. If he faltered, the priest, without appearing anxious 
that he should proceed, assisted his memory by a quiet, skilful 
question. His tears wet the little table. At length his voice died 
away in the conclusion of the conjiteor, and he covered his face 
with both hands. 


472 


ALBAN. 


“ My dear son,” said the monk, “ you have made a confession 
marked, to all appearance, by those qualities which are requisite 
in a good confession — sincerity and integrity. The humility you 
have displayed cannot but call down upon you the benediction of 
the Almighty, who has said in words familiar to your ears, I 
divell tvith the man that is of a contrite and humble spirit, and 
to whom shall I have respect biit to him that is poor and little 
and of a contrite spirit, and that trembleth at my icords ? You 
have had your evils — enough to teach you that in yourself you are 
no better than others, but with the proof they have afforded you 
of your own frailty, you ought to be thankful that you have 
been kept, perhaps by Providence as much as by grace, from 
that ‘foul and lavish act of sin’ which, as the poet says, inflicts such 
deep and lasting wounds on the soul. In regard to what is more re- 
cent — those violent inward temptations of which you speak — think 
not too much of them. The motions of concupiscence being nat- 
ural we cannot feel horror at them ; it is sufficient that we refuse 
to yield, and wish to be freed from them, if it were possible. De- 
spise the movements of your rebellious flesh, which is not and can- 
not be subject to the law of God, or regard them only to deepen 
your humility. Neither be over-scrupulous in regard to inter- 
course with certain persons. You may easily thus ensnare your 
conscience. Preserve a right intention in all things, and go for- 
ward with a sweet and holy courage. Lift the eyes of your heart 
above this sphere of vile temptations, and fix them on the perfec- 
tions of your God. Meditate, my son, on the tender love of the 
Holy Trinity for the race of men : the Father’s goodness in crea- 
ting you, that of the Son in redeeming you, and of the Holy Ghost 
in eflecting your sanctification. Consider Jesus Christ expiring on 
the Cross for you, or lingering in the Blessed Sacrament to be your 
food and victim. Remember that this life must be to you as it 
was to Him, one of unceasing conflict, humiliation, and suffering, 
in order that the life to come may be one of happiness, triumph, 
and rest. Avoid, of course, all consent to sin, and especially every 
outward act, which of itself proves the consent of the will ; but 


ALBAN. 


473 


these apart, be courageous, calm, serene, hopeful, manly. Yes ; let 
your piety he manly. You pray a great deal, it seems. It is-well ; 
it is necessary. But remember that one act of unfeigned humility 
is a prayer more efficacious than if you recited the whole Breviary 
from beginning to end. Use every means of grace, and confide 
in nothing hut God.” 

Alban felt a deep surprise at the lightness of the penance 
which his strange confessor imposed for the sins of his whole life, 
it being only to read the eighth chapter of the Third Book of the 
Imitation of Christ, and add the Yeni Creator to his devotions ; 
both every day for a week. It was true that he had accused 
himself of what were doubtless mortal, though interior transgres- 
sions, but the shame and compunction which he evidently suffered 
in thus laying bare the secrets of his heart, were so great, that 
what with his innocence in the exterior point of view, it was a 
case for binding up the wound, and pouring on the oil of consola- 
tion. The priest had questioned him in regard to his baptism. 
Alban had never doubted its validity. 

“ It may seem strange,” observed the monk, “ that so great a 
gift as regeneration, which is the gate to eternal life, should be 
suspended on the right performance of an external act of this 
kind. But it is not more strange than that the gift of existence, 
which in one sense is greater, (for unless we existed, we could not 
be regenerate,) should be suspended on the coincidence of outward 
circumstances far less solemn. It is necessary to a valid baptism 
that the matter and form, that is, the water and the words, be 
morally united, so that while the baptizer is pronouncing the latter, 
he may be fairly considered to wash the baptized. The sect- 
ministers generally have no idea of matter and form in a sacra- 
ment, or of the necessity of uniting them, and as they generally 
sprinkle, often while the infant’s head is covered with a cap, it 
may easily happen that only a few drops of water, too minute to 
Jloio upon the surface, may touch the child. Now that would 
not be baptism. I have seen even an Episcopal minister first 
pronounce the child’s name, pour his hollow hand full of water 

40 » 


474 


ALBAN. 


upon its head, and then say, I baptize thee, Spc : that would not 
be baptism either. In short, as the slip-shod notions of these sects 
do not permit them to prescribe, as the Church does, such a man- 
ner of administering the sacrament as to preclude the possibility 
of these defects, we cannot safely assume the validity of their 
baptisms, and they must he repeated as doubtful, unless we have 
positive proof to the contrary.” 

“ The two ladies in this house were present at my baptism,” 
said Alban. 

“ By all means, then, we must question them before proceeding 
further,” said the monk. 

As soon as Alban, confessed but not absolved, had risen from 
his knees, the monk said to him with a smile, 

“ What meant the evil spirit by referring me to you and the 
beautiful lady ? You know not ? The enigma may be solved 
one day. At present w'e must try the effect of an exorcism, for 
which I have a competent general authority. We shall need 
holy water — real holy water. Will you get me a little salt and a 
capacious bowl.” 

Alban departed on this errand. The back stair descended 
from a room occupied by the older boys, both of whom were asleep. 
Breathless quiet reigned throughout the house. Just at the land- 
ing of the stair was a low door opening into a garret-room where 
the servant girls slept. As Alban passed it, he heard the raps, 
not loud but decided. These raps upon doors had been of fre- 
quent occurrence, and were always understood as implying an 
invitation to enter, or if it was a closet, to open it. He disre- 
garded the hint and went down stairs. Returning in about ten 
minutes with a salt-cellar and large bowl, he perceived the smell 
of fire in passing the same door, and the raps were repeated. 
Having carried in the articles to the priest, he returned hastily 
and knocked at the girls’ room. There was no answer, and the 
smell of fire being now strong, he opened the door. A dim lamp 
burning on the floor discovered a slight smokiness in the air, yet 
the two Irish girls slept profoundly on separate cots. Since Eddy 


ALBAN . 


475 


had ceased to scream, slumber had sealed all eyes and steeped all 
senses but those of the monk and Alban. The latter passed on 
between the beds of the girls to a door in the side of the apart- 
ment. This was the room of Mrs. Fay. A red flame illumined 
it, proceeding from the bed. Breathless he approached, lifted the 
muslin valance of the white-curtained bed, and lo, on the carpet 
a little pile of kindlings all in a light blaze, which already darted 
its snake-like tongues along the hempen sacking towards the light 
valance and curtains. Above, two soft faces lay still and close 
together on the dusky white of the pillows. He touched Rosa- 
mond ; ,she wakened her mother. 

“ Your bed is in flames — pay, be not alarmed.” 

Rosamond’s limbs gleamed for a moment in the red light, as 
she sprang out ; her mother glided from the bed like a spirit. 
Alban threw on water — what the pitchers contained — then fling- 
ing the curtains within the bed, out of reach of the flames for the 
moment, proceeded to uncord the bedstead. Meanwhile — more 
thoughtful of their modesty than their safety, or that of the 
house — the mother and daughter robed themselves, with palpita- 
ting hearts. It seemed an age that passed ; the valance was in 
flames before the bed’s head was uncorded. Alban stepped boldly 
on the bed, wdiich sank through upon the soaking carpet, drew 
the curtains quite out of reach of the flames, which now encircled 
him, and completed the work of uncording. The fire beneath 
was smothered, the light valance went out like paper, and dark- 
ness descended upon the room. 

“ Is'it Rosamond ? Ah, Mrs. Fay !” — The voice trembled. — 
“ I was trying to find the door and went the wrong way. I will 
find it now and fetch a light.” 

He brought the lamp from the girls’ room. Mrs. Fay took it 
to light her candle. Her hand trembled, but her face was calm. 
She was already dressed. At least a snowy wrapper hid all. 

“ Rosamond, my love, thank Mr. Atherton,” — half reproach- 
fully, for the little girl was shrinking behind. 

Rosa, whose ringlets were in wild disorder, and her frock half 


476 


ALBAN . 


hooked, at her mother’s word, sprang forward, threw her arms 
round his neck, and kissed him. Even a little girl’s warm, quick 
kiss seemed to embarrass Atherton. He was retiring, with a 
downcast glance, when Mrs. Fay detained him. 

“ Mr. Atherton, one moment pardon me. You were speaking 
of your baptism the other day. I was then just going to tell you 
of a dispute, which arose at the time, about its validity, but sister 
made me a sign to hold my tongue. Your family, you know, was 
of great importance in Yanmouth ; and as there were several 
Episcopalians like ourselves present at your christening, we de- 
scribed the way it was done to our clergyman, who said it was no 
baptism. He was a terribly high churchman, to be sure, and 
afterwards turned Roman Catholic. After what you have done 
for Rosa and me, I cannot keep from you a fact which you may 
regard as important. When it occurred,! was just of Rosa’s age.” 

He passed out between the cots of the sleeping maids, and 
having deposited their lamp where he found it, without a glance 
to the right or the left, rejoined the monk in the “prophet’s 
chamber.” The Carmelite listened, with his piercing eyes wide 
open, to Alban’s relation. 

“ What was the maiden name of these ladies ? And yours is 
Atherton ? Is it so indeed ? Strange are the ways of Provi- 
dence. I was that Episcopal clergyman, Mr. Atherton — now, 
by the mercy of God, a poor Carmelite. Well, we will examine 
into the matter more closely in the morning ; but let us now re- 
turn to this demoniac.” 

Eddy was still lying in the corner of the chamber where he 
had fallen. Soapstone had thrown some clothes over him, and 
had afterwards fallen asleep himself in his chair. He became 
roused from his doze to behold the grave Carmelite, with book in 
hand, and holding the end of his stole over the prostrate child, 
reciting rapidly the prayers prescribed in the ritual for the exor- 
cising of persons possessed by the devil. Alban held a light and 
a vessel of holy water, from which, at intervals, the exorcist 
sprinkled. 


ALBAN. 


477 


In the midst of the third exorcism, at the words et ignis arde- 
bit ante ipsum, the boy threw off the clothes and arose. It seemed 
that he was going to make a dash at the holy water, but he stop- 
ped short, gazing at Atherton with a horrible look of fear. Thrice 
the boy shrieked — an unearthly shriek, a cry of anguish unutter- 
able, sinking into a deep, hollow, vanishing moan — and fell lan- 
guidly. The priest caught him. They all together raised and 
laid him on the bed. 


478 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Day has dawned. Minute crimson clouds — the avant gardes of 
the sun — floated in a sky clear as a bell. The glittering plume 
of the morning star trembled, to speak poetically, in the rosy 
East. Dewy were the plains ; misty and dark blue the hills. 
The cock, as the old epopee would not fail to notice, crowed in the 
farm-yard ; the horse already cropped the June meadow with 
crunching teeth and snuffling nostril ; the fresh-breathed maids 
came forth with their milk-pails from the brown farm-houses. 

In Catholic countries the Angelus bell would invite to prayer 
and the tapers kindle on the altar for early mass, whither the 
laborer would repair to sanctify the day by assisting at the morn- 
ing oblation. The Church loves early hours. Protestants delight 
in the sentimental witchery of evening, in the exquisite languor 
of sunset, the unreal charm of moon and stars throughout the 
year. They enjoy “ night services,” with bright gas-light, and 
crowds like a theatre, and a fervent preacher, soothing and exci- 
ting at the same time an exhausted nervous system. The religion 
which begins and ends in feeling is necessarily so ; but a religion 
of practice cannot thus arrange itself, because the evening being 
followed, not by action but repose, whatever impression could be 
made at this unseasonable hour, would pass away without fruit. 
Compline, which is the last sweet and brief office of the day in 
the Roman Church, and never varies in more than a few words, 
a hallelujah in the Paschal time, a doxology on the feasts of the 
Lord — Compline is^ supposed to conclude ere the last fading of 
the vesper twilight. In practice it is said much earlier. Catholic 
priests almost universally rise early, and are engaged in the duties 
of their calling, personal and public, for hours ere Protestant min- 
isters quit their conjugal beds. The moral inffuence of this early 
activity, in the long run, is incalculable. His heart is not easily 


ALBAN. 


479 


made impure by the foul illusions of a bloated sensuality, who 
rises before light to meditate and pray. That first victory over 
sloth fortifies the will ; the cool breath of morn assuages the fever 
of concupiscence ; and the matin worshipper feels upon his soul a 
cooler breath, from the Eternal Mount, imparting to it an ada- 
mantine temper, against which the edge of temptation is quickly 
turned. 

The wagon-bolt was replaced by sunrise, and the monk’s com- 
panion waited for him at the gate. In the little chamber a pair 
of candles stood lighted on the table, whereon a narrow white 
cloth was spread. The priest took from a sort of wallet of silk, 
having a red ribbon attached, a square piece of linen, which he 
spread, and a silver case resembling a locket. He opens the 
latter ; he adores, kneeling ; he lifts the sacred victim of salva- 
tion. Alban and the girl Bridget are kneeling, and he communi- 
cates the latter. He adores again ; he closes the pix, replaces it, 
with the corporal and purificatory, in the bursa, and passes the 
ribbon round his neck. 

It was a question whether Dr. and Mrs. Cone would permit 
their house to be blessed, and holy-water to be sprinkled through 
the rooms as a defence against the future incursions and return of 
the demons ; if, indeed, the quiet which had continued since the 
exorcism of Eddy, intimated their effectual expulsion. Father 
Xavier, (such was his name in religion,) refused to do any thing 
without the express permission of his hosts. The fear of being 
burned in their beds overcame the repugnance which they natu- 
rally felt to avail themselves of his assistance. At their formal 
request, he passed from room to room, reciting the appointed 
prayers, and sprinkling the element which the Church blesses with 
the expressed intention that “ whatever in the houses or abodes 
of the faithful this wave shall sininkle, may he free from all 
imyxirity, be delivered from harm ; that no pestilent spirit may 
reside there, nor corrupting air : that all the snares of the latent 
enemy may depart ; a7id if there is any thing lohich is hostile 
either to the safety or the quiet of the inhabitants, by the asper- 


480 


ALBAN. 


don of this water, it may flee away : that the salubrity which 
is sought by the invocation of Thy holy name, may be defended 
from all assaults.” 

They came upon Dr. Patristic snoring in bed in spite of the 
sunlight streaming betwixt the half-open shutters, and hallowed 
the room without disturbing his slumbers. 

The astonishment and displeasure of Mrs. Cone were great when 
her departing guest declined to break his fast. He had not tasted 
their salt ; he had not even pressed the couch provided for him. 
He assured her that he was accustomed to vigils ; and as for 
taking food ere his departure, he regretted to decline the hospitable 
offer, but decline it he must, since his first duty at Yantic would 
be to say mass for the small colony of Irish laborers and servant 
girls, whom the factories had collected around the Falls of the old 
Indian river. 

Good Mrs. Cone was further astonished and afflicted to find 
that Alban was going to accompany the priest. The questions in 
regard to his baptism next came up and made her dart a reproving 
glance at the blushing Mrs. Fay. 

“ Hay,” said the grave Carmelite, “ I myself remember some- 
thing. Have you quite forgotten an old friend, Mrs. Cone ? Time 
has altered us both, but I can retrace the laughing Fanny Cleveland 
in my sedate hostess.” 

“ Mr. Hewley !” cried Mrs. Cone, blushing as vividly as her 
sister. 

“ And how about this young man’s baptism ?” said the monk. 

Mrs. Cone brought out a new feature of the case. Old Mrs. 
Atherton, Alban’s grandmother, had been annoyed at the talk, 
and had got his uncle, the bishop, to make all right, as she 
deemed, in private. 'Mrs. Cone herself, then an Episcopalian, had 
been godmother, and her brother, a clergyman and the bishop’s 
chaplain, had been godfather, when Dr. Grey baptized his great- 
nephew in the old Yanmouth church on a week-day Festival, and 
in the old marble font taken with the bell from the Spaniards. 
This was just after Mr. Hewley resigned the parish, and when 


ALBAN. 


481 


the child was about eighteen months old. Mr. Cleveland read the 
Church service, and the Bishop baptized the child after the second 
lesson, although, except old Mrs. Atherton, the two clergymen, and 
the narrator, not a soul was present. The Rev. Mr. Cleveland 
was since dead. 

“ I don’t care if they read the whole prayer-book,” said the 
monk, “ or if the church was empty or crowded. All I want 
to know is how the bishop performed the simple act of baptism.” 

“ Oh, sir, he did not use the conditional form, I remember, 
because the bishop considered all Presbyterian baptism invalid.” 

“That was a heresy. But did Bishop Grey use much 
water ?” 

“ The hand brimming full,” said Mrs. Cone, affecting to pour 
from her hollow hand as from a cup. “ The quantity of water 
made Master Alby cry lustily. When I took him back from the 
bishop, his fine light hair was wet enough to drip, and it ran all 
into his neck. I shall not soon forget it. For he was a year old 
at least.” 

“ So far is highly satisfactory,” said Father Xavier, glancing 
at Alban. “ One point more remains, and it is one of great 
delicacy as well as importance. At what moment did the bishop 
pour all this quantity of water, or did he pour it thrice ?” 

“ Only once, I am sure, or I should have noticed it,” responded 
Mrs. Cone. “ He poured it, I presume, while he was pronoun- 
cing the words. The child cried so that I thought of nothing else 
at the time but that flood of water which the bishop scooped 
out of the old font. No doubt Bishop Grey did every thing as 
it ought to be done, sir. A bishop, sir ! of course !” 

“ The truth is,” said Father Xavier, as Alban and he drove 
away from Dr. Cone’s gate, “ evidence is worth little after so much 
time has lapsed, unless the witness had her attention called par- 
ticularly to the point.” 

“ And am I still to remain suspended thus between heaven 
and earth, not knowing whether I am a Christian or not ?” asked 
Alban, with a painful smile. 


41 


482 


ALBAN, 


“ Through no fault of Holy Church, my son. It would sim- 
plify the matter very mueh if we could say that all baptisms out 
of the Church are invalid. But the Church never seeks simpli- 
city at the expense of truth. Sometimes an adherence to truth 
may involve her in perplexities which others do not feel ; but she 
is patient, and in the end order is developed under her unerring 
hand out of the most intricate seeming confusion.” 

“ To be baptized three times is very repugnant to my feel- 
ings,” said Atherton. 

Father Xavier would say no more until they should again be 
alone. The missionary (for although merely on a visit to his 
native country, the monk was discharging the duties of an ordi- 
nary priest of the mission) heard a number of confessions at 
Yantic, said mass, and baptized some children. At length Alban 
was alone with him in the humble room overlooking the Falls, 
where the temporary altar had been erected. The young convert 
again knelt, and added some brief words to his previous confession. 

“ Think not of these things,” said the priest, who in the con- 
fessional seemed another person. “ Without grace it is impossible 
not to fall. Satan throws these seeming opportunities and sugges- 
tions in your way to tempt you partly, and partly to make you 
despair of God’s goodness. If you had really had the opportunity 
of committing the sin which you say was suggested to you, probably 
in your present state of mind, you would have repelled it with 
horror, or at least with decision. The real impossibility made it 
seem to you as if you consented. It was an illusion of the devil, 
who is always ready to afflict us in that way if God permits. 
You have made a good and sincere confession, I am very sure, 
and the Church cannot mean that you should make it fruitlessly. 
She cannot withhold from you the grace of which she is the dis- 
penser. I really think it probable that you have been baptized, 
and I shall therefore absolve you, on the invariable condition of so 
far as you need and I arn able. You must write to your right- 
reverend uncle, and if his answer be satisfactory, you will need 
only to have the ceremonies supplied, and you can go to commu- 


ALBAN. 


483 


nion at once. But whatever his answer may he, you will never 
be obliged to repeat this confession. Remember that.. For if you 
have been baptized, the absolution you are about to receive will 
be good, and if you have not been baptized, no absolution what- 
ever will be necessary. Does this meet your wishes, my dear son ? 
It is just the ordinary case of receiving absolution, but deferring 
communion. Bow your head, then, and renew your -contrition 
for all the sins of your life.” 

In a moment it was over, and the sins of Alban’s youth had 
passed away, we may believe, like darkness at the entrance of a 
bright light, and his star-like soul, formed to know and love its 
Creator, shone once more in the sight of the angels, brighter than 
Hesperus, or Lucifer, with the glorious beams of sanctifying grace. 
Hell had failed with all its arts. 


484 


ALBAN. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

In July Alban visited New Haven by special permission, to attend 
the final examinations of his class. He was almost forgotten. The 
class feeling was already dissolving. College had sunk into its 
true place, and men had their eye on the world. There was talk 
of keeping up old friendships, but it was mere talk. The Popery 
excitement had died a natural death. The President received 
Atherton kindly, and informed him that he would be allowed to 
deliver his oration. This great honor, so long anticipated and the 
cause of so many heart-burnings, seemed now a very small affair. 
Alban loved his alma mater, and that iron New England of which 
it was the intellectual representative, but he had taken the dimen- 
sions of them both. In all this ancestral land of his, and in its 
university, not one thinker was to be found who dared maintain 
that the human will was truly self-determinant, or who deemed 
that grace had any other office than to compel the affections. 

“ Oh glorious liberty of the sons of God !” he exclaimed, as 
he walked under the endless arbors of the grove-like Academe, 
“ you are here unknown !” 

The rustication was now at an end, and Alban might have 
gone where he pleased ; but he returned to Carmel to write his 
oration. His mother, whose health was delicate, was spending 
the summer with their relatives at Yantic, and he wished to be at 
least in her vicinity ; for it was not pleasant either for Alban or 
the Athertons, to associate much, his apostasy from the New En- 
gland, or rather from the family faith, rendered him so odious. He 
frequently drove down to the Falls with Mrs. Cone or Rosamond 
Fay, and once they penetrated as far as Yanmouth, where Alban 
paid a visit to the “ castle,” which had been sold, modernized, and 
new furnished. But the stone-bound, iron-gray hills, and broad, 
breeze-ruffled waters were unchanged, and the white, massive 


ALBAN. 


485 


brick pillars, black, many-sloped roof, and shrubberied terraces 
of the old Atherton house, still commanded the town and bay and 
fort-crowned heights. 

At length the seniors’ six weeks were over, and from the open 
window of his chamber Alban watched for the last time the sun 
set upon the table-land of Carmel. The fiery orb sank behind the 
low blue ridge-line of the remote hills as beneath the rim of ocean. 

It grew dark : the sounds of evening began to be heard ; the 
katydid and the cricket made a concert ; the fire-flies sparkled on 
the dusky green ; a bat flew back and forth under the leafy but- 
ton-balls. 

The student’s revery was broken by the entrance of a maid 
to perform certain neat duties about his room. It was the pretty 
Harriet. Alban spoke to her in a kind tone, slightly tinctured 
with gayety. She laughed, and busied herself with filling his 
pitcher, and setting in order his wash-stand. He turned again 
to the embrowned landscape and faded sky. Presently the girl 
sobbed. The young man took no notice till just as she was about 
-to leave the room, when he called her to him. 

“ Harriet,” said he, “ of all the people in this house who have 
seen the wonderful works of God in it, you are the only one who 
has been led to faith. They laugh at you and call you a fool ; 
they say other things harder yet for a young woman to bear. I 
have never spoken to you much. Now I am going away. What 
will you do when yau leave this house ? Will you go straight 
forward and do your duty ? It will be a hard struggle for your 
pride — to ‘ turn,’ as they say.” 

“ I will never die what I am,” said Harriet, weeping. 

“ Ah, Hatty ! if you live what you are, it may not be in your 
choice what you will die.” 

“ I know it, sir.” 

“ Is it so hard to give up your little world ? In your rank of 
life, Hatty, a pretty face and person expose to great temptations : 
how will you resist them when your conscience all the while tells 
you that you have turned your back on grace and Heaven ? Are 

41 * 


486 


ALBAN . 


you not afraid that God will punish you hy letting you be drawn 
into sin and shame by those very persons whose opinion you fear ?” 

“ Oh, sir,” cried the girl, with a toss of the head, “I have no 
fear of that. I am above that, I hope.” 

“ None of us is above any kind of wickedness, Hatty — if God 
lets us fall.” 

The girl applied the comer of her apron to her eyes and cried 
again. The youth glanced at her as she stood near, but indistinct, 
in the dusky chamber, and then he looked away again into the 
sparkling summer night, the warm breath whereof came in at the 
casement. Hatty was doubtless just as attractive to the senses as 
if she had been a lady — perhaps more so. The bat which had 
been flitting under the trees flew suddenly in at the open window. 

“ So flies the evil one into the heart,” thought Alban, looking 
round again. “ Go, Hatty,” he added aloud, and in a composed 
manner. “ You will be as good a girl, I hope, when next we 
meet, as I believe you are now. Only remember as my last 
words, that it is safer to fear our weakness than to rely upon our 
strength.” 

Hatty departed from him ; the youth knelt at his chair, and 
the swift-circling bat flew out like a winged shadow. 

“ How degrading,” exclaimed the young man, rising, “ to feel 
these coarse external temptations ! A ruby lip and springing 
waist — can they allure him whose cleansed vision beholds the 
dread realities of faith ? And yet it is well for me to have some- 
thing positive and tangible to conquer. Haply a victory here, 
though inglorious, may arm me for the subtle conflict which is all 
fought within. Those infinite suggestions of forbidden pleasure in 
the sweetest guise, and seemingly so pure, — shall they never end ? 
How hopeless, then, to struggle, since I cannot hope always to 
stand !” — The winged shadow flew in once more, unseen. — “ Yet 
let me fall fighting. 0 Michael, Prince of the heavenly hosts, 
come to my assistance.” — Again the bat darkened the casement 
as it flew out. 

There was a light tap at the door ; he sung out “ Come in,” 


ALBAN. 


487 


and little Rosamond Fay entered. Rosamond was clad in deep 
black. Alban sighed, kissed her forehead, and taking her hand, 
led her down into the piazza. 

Something supernatural lingered to the jast about the old house 
in Carmel. They say that strange noises are heard in it yet, 
particularly at night, and in certain chambers. The night that 
Alban slept there last, a certain wild inarticulate cry began soon 
after the family had retired, and never ceased till he was gone. 

In a few days, our hero arrived with his mother in New 
Haven, where his father was already installed at the Tontine. 
The beautiful little city was full of strangers. The graduating 
class gave a ball. The Phi Beta gave a dinner. Commencement 
day came, all music and orations, a church full of black coats 
and gay bonnets, degrees tied with blue ribbons, youths wearing 
mysterious society badges, and more valedictories said than were 
pronounced from the carpeted platform, where sat and listened, 
with unwearied gravity, the elders of New England. 

It is not often that a commencement oration attracts much 
attention, except for the fifteen minutes which it may occupy in 
delivery. Atherton’s was one of the exceptions which now and 
then strike between wind and water, and hold such an audience 
as he had, profoundly interested from first to last. The subject — 
“ The Necessity of Patience” — had already excited curiosity, 
augmented by the whispers floating about in relation to the singu- 
lar opinions of the author. A nearly beardless youth, loosely and 
scholastically attired in black summer cloth, with the golden sym- 
bols of the d’. B. K. and X. A. 0. glittering on his watch-guard, 
and the badge of the Brothers’ on his breast, stood in the circle — 
the triple, chaired corona — of gray-beards, bald intellectualities, 
and reverend white cravats. Two things struck people in Ather- 
ton’s oration, its life-like reality and the absence of ornament in 
the style. The matter was important and original ; the manner 
simplicity itself, showing that he had studied only to make his 
meaning perspicuous. And yet the peroration was highly rhe- 
torical. It was almost impassioned, as the words of a human being 


488 


ALBAN. 


speaking from a deep personal experience and sustained by an in- 
vincible faith. 

The conferring of degrees was an imposing ceremony, particu- 
larly when the President put on his hat. Any thing symbolic is 
so rare in New England that it never fails to impress. The only 
want which our hero felt at the time arose from the absence of the 
De Groots. Mary, it was understood, was in a convent — but 
whether as a boarder or a postulant no one exactly knew, and 
her parents were at the Virginia Springs. 

Henry Atherton was to be married the day after commence- 
ment, and Alban was to be one of the grooms-men, but such was 
the hurry of all parties that he could learn little about the ar- 
rangements except the necessary particulars of time and place. 

The day before commencement, going from the hotel to the 
colleges on an errand connected with his graduation, our hero had 
walked behind a party of some distinction, attended by Professor 

S . Alban hated to pass people, and accommodated himself 

to their leisurely pace. In advance with the Professor walked a 
large, middle-aged matronly lady, with an imposing gait, and who 
talked a good deal. Behind them, an officer in the undress uni- 
form of the army, gallanted a young lady of an exquisite figure, in 
rose-colored muslin and a white bonnet, managing with much 
grace a rose-and- white parasol. She was like a bouquet in motion 
under the mighty elms. The bronzed profile of her companion 
was often turned to her, and she answered the movement by a 
corresponding one, but that provoking crape bonnet hid her fea- 
tures. 

When Alban had finished his business at the colleges, he 
strayed into the Trumbull Gallery, to take another last look at 
the pictures which he had once admired, and the same party were 

there. But Professor S had quitted them, and the officer 

was sitting by the matronly lady, while the graceful wearer of 
the rose dress sauntered round the room by herself, with a cata- 
logue. Atherton observed her. She stopped longest before the 
very pictures which interested him ; and at the portrait of Wash- 


ALBAN. 


489 


ington, bent down twice to read the names of the donors. Still he 
could not catch a glimpse of her face, until, upon her friends calling 
her to come away, she turned back at the door of the inner room, 
and gave him a perfect view of her features. They were the 
sweetest mixture of fairness and bloom he had ever beheld — deep 
violet eyes, golden brown hair, with a fall of ringlets about the 
w’hite throat ; a nose, mouth, and chin indicative of character, 
vivacity, tenderness, and purity. She caught the student’s ad- 
miring glance, blushed, and hastily joined her friends. 

In leaving the church with his father and mother, after the 
exercises were over on commencement day, he again saw this 
party, somewhat in advance. The gentleman and older lady 
looked back on this occasion — and at him, he thought — as if they 
meant to stop and speak ; but after some hesitation, they pro- « 
ceeded without doing so. Their way was the same, and at last 
they all entered the Tontine, at the ladies’ door. Alban hoped, 
with reason, to see the beautiful face again at tea. 

He was not disappointed, for the ladies and their naval com- 
panion came to*the tea-table and sat opposite them. The young 
lady, unbonneted, was lovelier still, for her head was perfectly 
classic, and the light summer evening toilet showed a neck and 
shoulders not less finely formed, and of dazzling whiteness. The 
purity and even bloom of her complexion yielded, as it were, to 
a visible blush the moment that her eye rested on Alban ; nor 
did she quite recover from the suffusion while the brief sunset 
repast lasted. After tea, while his father and mother, worn out 
with the excitement and fatigue of the day, retired to their own 
room, he went inta the general parlor of the Tontine. The same 
party were there, grouped in a window that looked upon the 
green. The officer immediately advanced towards him. 

“ Mr. Atherton, I believe ?” — Of course, any body who had 
been at commencement knew his name. — “ There is a young 
lady here who says she has a right to be acquainted with you, 

Mr. Atherton.” 

Alban went forward, wondering and not a little fluttered, not- 


490 


ALBAN. 


withstanding his being now so used to ladies. She extended her 
hand with maidenly frankness and a look of afl'ectionate archness, 
quite irresistible. 

“ You have forgotten your cousin Jane, Alban ?” 

“ Jane ! Is it possible that you are Jane !” 

He embraced her, and she drew back confused, whereupon 
the elder lady, who was her aunt, observed with a smile that Jane 
and her cousin had been brought up like brother and sister. He 
found that Jane was to be one of the bridemaids on the morrow. 

“ We shall stand up together,” said Alban. “ I owe Hal a 
turn for not telling me of this, nor even that you were here.” 

We arrived but yesterday,” said Jane, “ and it has been such 
a busy day.” 

Moreover Jane had promised to accompany Henry and his 
bride on their w'edding-tour, (Niagara, of course,) and the grooms- 
men were to be of the party. It is a custom yet in the States, 
and often makes one wedding the fruitful parent of several others. 

We intend not to enter into the details of this interesting ex- 
cursion ; the transitions from the shady steamboat deck, on the 
noble river, to the flying rail-car that pierces the beautiful valleys ; 
the walks from lock to lock in the deep cuttings of the great canal, 
still used for travel ; rocking on the seat of an American stage, 
hanging over waterfalls, gazing at mountains and lakes by moon- 
light, drinking Spa waters from bubbling fountains before break- 
fast, rolling nine-pins, satisfying keen young appetites at plentiful 
tables, dancing in the evening saloons at the Springs. W"e may 
suppose that Jane had heard, from time to time, of Alban’s college 
distinctions, and that she was not insensible to the romance of 
their meeting. She had listened to his beautiful oration with 
pride ; she was making her first summer journey as a young lady 
in his company, and although young, “ Alban was a graduate, 
and a graduate was a Man.” 

But at an early period of the tour, Jane became aware that a 
great change had taken place in her cousin. The day on which 
they were steaming up the Highlands was the first of the discov- 


ALBAN. 


491 


ery. The immense boat — not three hundred feet long indeed, 
like those which now ply on the same river, but able to accom- 
modate some eight hundred passengers — was moving with scarcely 
a perceptible jar in its huge frame at a speed of nearly eighteen 
miles an hour, against the broad stream, shut in like a lake by 
green hills, under a sky of motionless cumuli and deep blue. 
They sat on the promenade deck, with perhaps a hundred others, 
all forming little circles apart, keeping carefully beneath the 
awning, and the ladies protecting their complexions by thick green 
veils. Some read novels ; some studied the map of the river ; in 
which the chief thing that seemed interesting, after some historic 
sites, were the old seats of the Livingstons, Van Rensselaers, Van 
Brughs, and De Groots. Overlooking a beautiful sweep of the 
river, from a lawn-like opening in an extensive park or wood 
which ran for miles along the water’s edge, a noble, bluish-gray 
mansion with a tower and wings, attracted general attention. 

“ The De^Groot Manor !” said Mrs. Henry Atherton. 

“ What a beautiful situation !” exclaimed Jane. “ I like it 
best of all we have seen.” 

“ Your friend Mary’s father, cousin Alban,” said Mrs. Atherton. 

“ Who is your friend Mary ?” asked Jane. 

“ The daughter of the Mr. De Groot who owns the fine 
mansion you see, and who, as well as his daughter, is a great 
friend of mine,” said Alban. 

“ A young lady ?” inquired Jane. 

“ When I saw her last she called herself sixteen.” 

“ Oh ! a little girl !” said Jane. 

“ Her father is not rperely very rich,” continued Alban, “ but 
an elegant scholar, a collector of rare books and pictures, and 
a man of very peculiar and subtle powers of mind.” 

.. “ What remarkable friends you seem to have,” observed Jane. 
“ Mr. Clinton — of whom you were telling me this morning, Mr. 
Seixas, and this Mr. De Groot. Is he of some strange out-of-the- 
way religion too ?” 

“ He is professedly a Unitarian, really, a Pantheist.” 


492 


ALBAN. 


“ At least you won’t apologize for his views.” 

“ Yes,” returned Alban, smiling. “ The Unitarians have 
their good points. They recognize the importance of careful 
moral culture, and reap the fruit in great moral excellence. No 
Protestants are more famous for truth, justice, amiability, and 
active benevolence. And those whom I have known pushed their 
ideas of decorum to prudery.” 

“ Was your friend Mary a little prude ?” said Jane, smiling 
“ I think that is so odious in such young girls.” 

“ What do you say, Mrs. Henry ?” said Alban, turning to 
Mary Ellsworth. “ Was Miss De Groot a little prude or not ?” 

“ I have seen her box a gentleman’s ears for a pretty slight 
cause,” cried St. Clair, shrugging his shoulders. 

“ Oh ! was she that sort !” cried Jane, with some disgust. 

“ I think,” said Alban, “ we may say that she had a delicacy 
of conscience on those points where your sex is supposed to be 
bound to a greater strictness than ours.” And he still appealed 
to !Mrs. Henry Atherton. 

“ Mary was propriety itself : I never thought her prudish,” 
said Mrs. Atherton, with a slight bride-like blush. 

“Well, I understand Unitarians,” said Jane, “and Jews: but 
how an intelligent, shrewd man, as you describe Mr. Clinton, Al- 
ban, can be a sincere Roman Catholic, passes my comprehension.” 

“ The only way to account for it is by the power of divine 
grace,” said Alban. 

“ I hope we shan’t get into any religious discussions,” interposed 
Henry Atherton, rather severely. 

“ Nothing was further from my intention,” said Alban. “ Only 
Jane’s remark made me feel queer.” 

Mary Ellsworth, (as for convenience we shall still call her, 
for there was another !Mary Atherton of the party,) leaned over 
towards Jane and whispered to her audibly to ask Alban what he 
thought of the Church of Rome’s prohibition of the marriage of 
cousins. Jane blushed. 

“ Is it prohibited ?” 


ALBAN. 


493 


“ Don’t you know that ? You and Jane are within the pro- 
hibited degrees, cousin Alban, — are you not ?” 

“ Certainly, we are second cousins. We could not marry with- 
out a dispensation.” 

“ You^see, Jane, you will have to get the Pope’s leave.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Alban. “ Every bishop, and I believe, every 
parish priest in this country, can dispense in that degree.” 

“ Where do you find in the Bible, Alb, that cousins must hot 
marry ?” asked Henry Atherton. “This appears to me one of those 
traditions and commandments of men which the Church of Rome is 
famous for imposing on men’s consciences. It was a great instru- 
ment of her tyranny in those middle ages that you so much admire, 
as well as a rich source of emolument through the dispensations 
you speak of. First she forbade what God’s Word permitted, and 
then she took money to let you do it.” 

“ Yes, Alban, you can explain every thing,” cried St. Clair, 
“ pray give us an explanation of this. Jane looks for it anx- 
iously.” 

“ Since you appeal to me, I will answer,” said Alban, quietly. 
“ The Primitive Church forbade the marriage of cousins long before 
you suppose the Papacy to have arisen, and the Greek Church forbids 
it still, understanding the terms brother and sister in Scripture to 
include cousins. The example of the Patriarchs, which I know you 
vidll quote, proves nothing, for Abraham married his niece — his 
sister, as she is called in the Bible. The Church is a chaste and 
tender mother. It is true that she has drawn the bonds of con- 
sanguinity closer than under the old carnal dispensation. Her 
heart is more sensitive to the slightest claim of nature ; she takes 
a wider circle of kindred into the nearness of blood affection ; she 
is more jealous of that purity which refuses to mix the two kinds 
of love. Do you blame her for it ?” 

“ Very fine. Alb, but it proves too much. If it is a question 
of Christian delicacy, no dispensation ought ever to be allowed. 
Why should the Church dispense with the slightest obligation of 
purity ?” asked Henry, coldly. 


4S 


494 


ALBAN 


“ Why, indeed !” exclaimed Jane, in an indignant under tone. 

^ “ Still you misunderstand her. I am bound by the law of 
purity to regard Jane as a sister, notwithstanding my knowledge 
that the Church may for good reasons remove the barrier between 
us and permit us to forget our common blood,” ■ • 

“ Well, if that is not impertinence, I don’t know what is,” 
cried Mrs. Henry. “ If I were you, Jane, I would remember it.” 

■ “ Jane understands me better than you do,” replied Alban, 
“ and I am convinced that-she is not offended because I say that, 
no sister could be dearer to me than she is.” 

“ I understand perfectly,” said Jane. 

“ You all talk of Jane,” exclaimed Mary Atherton, Henry’s 
sister, who was older than her brother, But no one seems to 
think that my feelings are outraged. Jane is only a second cousin 
after all, and as Alban says so pointedly (encouraging Jane) ‘ Any 
priest may dispense.’ But I am a first cousin. No help for me 
short of the Pope ! As Jane says” — mimicking her — “ I under- 
stand perfectly.” 

This sally made every one laugh, and brought the conversation 
back to safe ground. Alban promised that if Mary Atherton 
would give him any encouragement he would write to Rome for a 
dispensation at once. 

“ No, no !” she replied. “ I shall take care how I expose my- 
self to the charge of wanting delicacy towards my near relations. 
Henceforward, Alban, I regard you simply as a brother.” 

Henry Atherton told Jane afterwards that Alban was very 
eccentric. He had been nearly or quite an infidel, then «.lmost a 
Jew, and now he talked as if he M'ere going to turn Papist. They 
all hoped he would get over these crotchets as he grew older, 
and he (Henry) hoped a great deal from his affection for Jane 
herself 

From that time the subject was avoided, but Jane found it 
hard that wherever there was a Catholic church, however mean, 
Alban would go to it when they rested on the Sundays. This 
happened first at Babylon, and she knew not how to bear it to sit 


ALBAN. 


495 


by herself in the square pew in the old meeting-house, where she 
and Alban in the old times occupied opposite corners, and thought 
more of each other than of long prayer or pleasant hymn, or even 
stirring sermon. And to think that he had gone and strayed away 
to that great brick structure outside the village, where crowds of 
common Germans in blouses or petticoats of blue, according to 
their sex, and of the low Irish, filled the whole space and even 
knelt outside upon the steps of the portico ; and she did not care 
at all that the building realized a wish of Aunt Fanny’s, being 
dedicated D. 0. M. under the invocation of the Prince of the 
Apostles. 

Nor must we omit that they had some narrow escapes on this 
tour — Jane and Alban. One was at Niagara, where they two 
went under the Fall, and Jane slipped on the stones amid the 
spray, wind-gusts, and darkness, and the water-snakes that crawled 
up from the boiling caldron below The detention caused by 
this saved their lives, for on coming out again they found that a 
piece of rock had fallen directly upon their path, strewing it with 
fragments, any one of which was sufficient to have killed them 
both. Jane fancied that Alban’s “ guardian angel” had pushed 
her down, and Alban wondered, if he had been killed, what would 
have become of his soul. After that, a boiler burst on the St. 
Lawrence, a minute after they had passed it, and when Jane 
had been desirous o-f staying in its dangerous vicinity to look at the 
machinery, but Alban, who since the Niagara business was ner- 
vous either for himself, or her, or both, would not let her. In 
that case his guardian angel must have inspired him, they both 
agreed : for several persons were scalded to death by the acci- 
dent. 

Another incident was their visiting the cathedral in Montreal, 
and Alban’s kneeling before the altar where burned the solitary 
lamp. His friends thought it “ too absurd,” “ quite a display,” 
and Jane too was ashamed ; but when Alban rejoined her, he 
looked so strangely calm and sweet, that she loved him with all 
her heart in spite of his singularities. 


496 


ALBAN. 


And so our party sailed up Lake Champlain, while the flying 
mists now hid, now revealed, the wild mountains of Essex. They 
landed at the picturesque and historic Ti. Then their keel, steam 
impelled, cut swiftly the transparent waters of St. Sacrament, 
blue as the Rhone at Ferney — a sacred lake. 


THE END. 


NOTE. 

Those who may feel curious to follow the adventures of our hero after his 
reunion with Jane, are referred to the sequel of Alban, which will shortly 
appear. 


CCD no 






' T ^ : 'W 






< 




•• ». r 




•,v 


■•t ' ■ • 


p 


'■■r ^ '■ - ^’ * 

Vi' ' '- 
■ 4 ?;.'*nto- 1 .' ■■ 


1 - 

'.r. 


' ' «■ - .*' * 




.•/ 


)’ 




■» » 


^ ./ 





I 



1 ":■ 




' ■ ►■" ' -^V. vV 


t. \ 


( » 

. ''V 


I t; 

':<\ 

u ''“ifi ’» ./ J't * \ -.* • 


'A 


*,■> 




; 5 M’ B'-J 0 


-. I 


I - J 




i , - 5 , 




V 

I 




^*-ll i * 



<1 


4« 


> .«< 

■ ■»' 


• / 

I 


' - f; 


••’■■• ... ‘ 
J 


- 


n 


'* -• y 4 ■' 

'•■ -.'■'>< ■■ .' ' k . ■ I '/ 'i 

t 'T 

-r'» \. .• •, * ■ 4 


' i:, A 


T* ♦ . 


7 








/ ' 


'-T. 7 


. ^r-r ■ > 

i f 


^ iV‘ ■ 


i* % 







.r 


' ’Nripii 


/ 


• I 



/-• 


, ' -* 


J 

f 


^ 


. I 
4 


I 

*•■ 





■ V-' - '■'- 

■ •• •• f, ^J\ ^ ,.*: ■ 

' j)}-t : > 'f 


' V 


I, • , I,' ^ « » *.' 1 ^ s 


. • • 




>S. 


y. 







•/ - ,V 

^ * 1 


' i / 


A- 


V 


\ • 


* ; 


I T » .* •. '■ 


» • ' .\% 

. V 


^ i I 







. .ivii vv? 


•5*; '* 

v.i 


A 




.Uf 


t A 





4 J i^r 








W -- 







' t'l 






% ^ 


I V 


• i 


■ ‘ • 


/ ‘ 1^1 


•Ti 


t » 

' < 


■ '. >; 


1 1 


. • *1 


.V' 






’ t. 


■\ 


'f 


>. -■. r ,. 


. ,V."- ’ 'f H 2rti 


.t 




• (*»• > ' »* 
ti‘ • •. 


< i 


• t 




t i 


/f 


\ , 


* t 


\ 




i 


•I*. 


>< • ••''‘\^ 


SI 




/>• . 




•ere 

' >’5 Jr w 1 

I <>- V rjfWm .• 


r'‘'li';« 




• n 


Ik > 


% 


M’ 


*^> 


i.v .. 


;• * ^ '^‘* ■'1 '•■ ) V - ' 


'A, 


« 

f • 


A ' 


r/./i' i. ■ 


». 


»* .' 


I v" 


>. 




??/a ' ■' ' ' ' ' ■ 

T . ,• ’"f 'VTn'- ' 


■ .'r:.- 


V '. 












